Live Another Life
by PromiseRuin
Summary: His family is gone; he's completed his vengeance, or so be believes. Now, Frank can be left alone... but the story isn't over. A voice in his head keeps whispering to him that he deserves more than this. Will he listen? Punisher S1 compliant. Rated for future chapters. (Please give me honest critiques!) Disclaimer: Characters/songs not mine.
1. Close to Heaven

_Author's note: Hello! I'm sorry to keep deleting/uploading the same chapters over and over. I am working through the grammar and tense issues I notice as I reread it and I want you all to have a good cut._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _So I'll stay unforgiven_

 _And I'll keep love together_

 _And I'll be yours forever._

 _I'll sleep close to heaven._

Maria.

Her smile, her laugh; the way she touched him and how it felt when she held him. The feeling had kept Frank warm, even when he was on a tour…but that feeling had disappeared, replaced by something cold and heavy in his chest. But he knew it was his fault just as he knew he would always feel the loss. It fueled him – his rage, hate; his violence and vengeance. It pushed him, goaded him. He had nothing else. The pain, it powered him. He didn't need anything else. Just the memory of those he loved the most dying before his eyes. Just his failure; his inability to protect them.

 _Frank_.

"Stop," he whispered out loud.

That voice…he had only been hearing it in his sleep at first; a quiet intruder into his cacophonous life. He couldn't pinpoint when the voice began to come on in his waking hours. It had shocked him at first; he would sit on the roof of the building they were demolishing and he would snap his head to the right, then the left, to find the source. But he knew, deep down, no one was there; it filled his head. Maria's voice. But it wasn't her; he knew that; not because she was dead or because he doesn't believe in ghosts. No, it was the _words_ that the voice said. In her soothing tone, Maria's voice would say: _It's okay, Frank_ or _You deserve more than this_. The voice didn't come at moments of irrationality, like when he was being tortured, beaten, and close to passing out from blood loss; it didn't sound when Red was throwing his ass around a roof top, _preaching at him_. No, the voice came when he was alone in the quiet moments of his day, when his thoughts travelled to _her_. Karen fucking Page, a woman with the nose of a bloodhound for trouble and, instead of running away from it, she would run directly at it. Always did, even before she became a top reporter for _The New York Bulletin_ and started getting paid to find it. He remembered her pointing that .380 at him with so much anger he thought she might pull the trigger. So much disappointment and sorrow because _she believed him_ and fought for him. It was the same look she gave him in the woods. He knew that he had fucked it all up; she helped him remember so much that he had lost and he shut the door on her.

 _It's okay, Frank_.

"No, it fucking isn't." He shut those thoughts of Karen down, ignored the flash of her blue eyes in his head, and pushed away the feel of her soft blond hair. He ignored the way she looked at him as he was pushing her at _Murdock_ even though she was saying _he hurts people_ ; and he pushed away the flash of emotion he saw and how badly he wanted to reach across that table, across a chasm that looked larger than it really was, to touch. Would she have let him? He believed she would have at that moment; but not now. Not anymore. Not now that she knew what he was.

He hadn't seen her since the night Murdock's girlfriend died; not in a way that she would notice, not after Schoonover. That pain he couldn't ignore or push down; so he added it to the pain he always carried and could imagine that it was all from the same loss. In some ways, it was. He thought that once he had finished his _business_ , once they were all dead, the pain would go away; but it lingered. It remained prominent, palpable. The pain of losing his family was there and always would be, he was sure. But he knew that he did it – avenged them. It could never make the pain stop, but it helped. A little. He couldn't save them but he put down all those bastards that killed them. Not just the ones who were there, no – he killed all of those were part of the gangs; those who made money from them; even those who were tangentially connected and dirty.

Gone. Bang. Bang. Done.

The pain of his loss eased with the completion of his task. Eased, never gone. This other pain, though, it shot through him when he least expected it. When he saw a copy of _The New York Bulletin_ while walking to work, it stabbed him. He always bought one…always looked for her name. She'd become somewhat of a big name these days – Karen fucking Page. He felt that pain when he thought of her in those quiet moments, when he was all alone on his lunch break. He felt it when he was home, searching for sleep and suddenly, her face would pop into his mind. Tonight was one of those nights. He had given up lying down and sat in the kitchen, drinking a beer.

 _It's okay._

He shook himself and closed his eyes tightly. He focused on the loss of his family; remembered their deaths. The pain reemerged, the pain he could accept. It overpowered the other pain and kept it from stabbing his heart. He sat at his small kitchen table with the poor light above him and looked down at the headlines on today's _Bulletin_ , then pushed it away, off the table. It fell to the floor and the numerous sections scattered. He finished his beer in one long drag, and pulled out the photo of his family. Its edges were creased and worn; he stared at it so long that his eyes began to burn and the faces of his wife and children, smiling so happily, went out of focus. In the moment that their faces became murky, they melded together and formed a pair of piercing blue eyes in a halo of blond hair. He shook himself again, more violently, swinging his arm out as if he could grab her, hold her, but she wasn't there. She never was. He stifled the growl that nearly escaped him and laid his head in his hands; he ignored the stab of pain that accompanied those eyes and repeated the word, over and over "Maria, Maria, Maria."

 _You deserve more than this, Frank_.

Maria. But she wouldn't say that to him, right?

 _Frank._

"Stop!" He shouted into the dark kitchen. Luckily, in this run down hole of an apartment, he didn't have to worry about being quiet. The walls were paper thin and he was well aware that he woke up screaming, sometimes, but the management didn't want the cops here anymore than the tenants did. This place wasn't exactly full of law-abiding citizens, to put it mildly. Quite the opposite, but none of them were worth his attention. No, these days, he kept his head down along with the rest of them.

He always paid his rent in cash and no one ever looked at his face long enough to think he might look even the slightest bit familiar. It helped that he had allowed his hair and beard to grow to make himself look as different from the face that graced so many newspapers and channels as possible. He'd been called a "hipster" which he didn't necessarily enjoy, but the change provided enough of a disguise that he could walk freely among the very New Yorkers who had called him a "monster" all those months ago. He'd hidden himself in plain sight.

He considered going to lie down again and looked at the clock on his nightstand. _12:_ 25\. He sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, letting his head fall backward and trying to summon the exhaustion he had felt when he finished his workday. After a few moments, he huffed a breath and got up again, grabbing his sweatshirt and zipping it up as he headed out the door. During his off time, when he wasn't still at the construction site, destroying walls to block out the voices and memories, he wandered the streets. Sleep hadn't been easy for him for such a long time; when he had returned from his last deployment, he barely slept unless Maria was holding him. After their deaths, he struggled to achieve even a few peaceful hours. So he often wandered the streets late at night.

Many of these nights, he'd ended up outside her building. Karen's. Tonight was one of those nights, he realized as he crossed the familiar streets. It seemed that she slept about as much as he did. Her lights were rarely on but, even in the chilly night air, her window was open and he could see the light from her computer screen. He wondered if she was hoping that Red would show up, but from what he had heard, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, the altar boy – Matthew Murdock – had died in some building collapse not too long ago. In the weeks after it happened, he'd watched her cry and with the warring emotions inside of him, he felt like he was suffocating. He wanted to hold her and tell her it would be alright. He wanted to leave and never come back. He wanted to kiss every single tear away. He wanted to forget her. The details of the collapse were sketchy and a lot of it was hush hush. Even Karen's article on it seemed incomplete, though he could hardly blame her for avoiding the topic.

In the months following Frank's return, when he couldn't sleep, he walked to her apartment without really thinking of where he was going. When it became clear where he was, he would pause on the sidewalk and look up at her window. He knew which one was hers and would stand beneath it for a few minutes, then move on. After a few weeks, he was able to access the roof across from her building and he would take the stairs two at a time to get up there just to check on her. To make sure she was okay; make sure she was staying out of trouble. To see her. But those short visits became lingering ones and, before he realized it, he was going every night and watching her until he felt that he was tired enough to actually sleep. She spent so much time working, her laptop open and that blue light shining on her, turning her crystal eyes a shade of silver. Sometimes, she was watching television, drinking a beer; but usually she was working. He thought sometimes that she noticed him; her eyes would flash up and look right at him, but he doubted she was seeing him. She had become more isolated since Red's death and Frank never stopped by on a Friday or Saturday night to find that she was out, or worse, had someone over.

Nelson, the other attorney, stopped by sometimes but she would send him away with a promise that she was okay, just busy. A woman came by a few times, wearing scrubs with her dark hair loose. She would hug Karen and look her over, then nod her head and leave. Frank watched it all. Karen was alone, just like him. He wondered what she would do if she opened the door and it was him. He wondered if she would blow his head off or hug him. Probably both. Not that he would do that. She was better off without him.

 _Frank._

He sat on the rooftop and let his thoughts wander, imagining that she would hold him close and cry. He imagined that her hands would run through his hair and over his beard; she'd make a smartass comment about it and offer him a beer. It would be awkward at first, but slowly, they'd fall back into that rhythm they had before... before she saw him as a monster, too. Before Schoonover. Tonight, Karen's laptop was open as usual, and that light was shining on her face, hair, chest, and the tops of her thighs as she leaned over the coffee table, typing furiously. She was wearing a loose, gray tank top and a pair of shorts and he wondered if she was cold, since her window was open. He cleared his throat and, even in the noise of the New York night, with the car horns and the voices, even at 1:30 on a Wednesday morning, she _heard_ him and her head snapped to look in his direction. He held absolutely still, sure that she could not see him but unwilling to take the risk that she would if he moved an inch. He watched her stand up and walk to the window, her eyes seemingly boring holes into his own the whole way, and then she put her hands on the window and pulled it down, closing it. Her eyes stayed on him for a moment before moving along the rooftop, as if searching for the origin of the sound that startled her.

 _You deserve more_.

"Stop," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him anymore. Karen moved back into the dark of the apartment and shut her laptop, effectively bathing the room in total darkness. He sighed and stood up, walked to the fire escape on the alley side, to the right and kitty corner from Karen's apartment. He made his way down the stairs as quietly as possible, knowing that he was making more noise than Red would have, but not caring too much. He waited in the dark of the alley, taking one final look at her window before beginning the trek back to his place.

He ignored the feeling that he was being watched, ignored the feeling that he had seen a pair of blue eyes watching him go. When he reached his apartment, he removed his hoodie, jeans, and t-shirt, and lay down on the bed. Sleep took him quickly this time even while his thoughts were haunted by a pair of blue eyes.

Karen.


	2. Walk Away

_Author's Note: Hello! Once again, please inform me of any errors you observe and also, drop me a line and let me know what you think!_

* * *

 _I'm so sorry for the demon I've become,_

 _You should be sorry for the angel you are not._

 _I apologize for the cruel things that I did,_

 _But I don't regret one single word I said._

He felt spooked after that night, after the feel of someone watching him. But it couldn't be Karen; it was too dark for her to have seen him. He spent the next night avoiding that area; he tried to go walking, but all of his paths eventually led in that direction. He felt so frustrated with himself that he decided to go to the construction site and keep demolishing walls. He swung the hammer over and over, his screams reverberating off of the vacant structure, but somehow containing them. Without the walls, it looked almost like a cell, he thought as he was standing, doubled over with his bleeding hands on his knees. The blood on the hammer was wet and glistened in the moonlight. He turned and looked out at the sky and considered the color of the moon, thought of how Karen's eyes looked with the computer light reflecting in them. He picked the hammer back up and kept swinging.

Bang. Maria.

Bang. Frank Jr.

Bang. Lisa.

His screams became louder, harsher; his throat ached and his hands were so slippery. Was it the blood or his sweat? Was his face really that sweaty, or were those tears he felt dripping from his beard onto his chest. He kept swinging and another wall had come down. He turned and stalked toward the adjacent wall and pulled the hammer back to swing it, but it slipped from his fingers and he reeled, stumbling with the sudden weight shift. His knee hit the floor, he put his hands out to catch himself and he flinched at the sharp agony of his ripped and bleeding hands landing on the glass and stone fragments that covered the floor. His inclination was to stand up and get back to it, but he just sat there staring at his hands.

They were covered in blood. Wet, sticky blood and he was reminded of having another's blood on them. He leaned back on his knees and looked at his palms, flipping them over to observe the backs of his hands as well. His breathing was heavy and his heartbeat was pumping so hard and fast, he imagined it was him, inside, pounding that hammer, trying to escape the prison. Trying to break free from this cage he had made for himself so long ago when he lost everything. The blood from his hands dripped onto his shirt and pants and he just let it. It was a familiar feeling, blood dripping from his hands. He remembered beating men so badly that he felt the bones in their faces move, give way, and the tissue became malleable. He remembered torturing them to discover others in their organizations; he often used his bare hands, but the use of tools didn't exactly keep one's hands clean.

He remembered when he was in Karen's apartment after he was let out by Kingpin; when he heard that gun cock and tackled her, his hands were on her head to keep it down, keep her safe. Her hair was so soft; he could feel it when it became entwined in his hand. He remembered the blood on his hands after he put down those pricks that came for them at the diner; he couldn't look her in the eyes with that blood on his hands. _Just stay away from me_ , he'd said. And that was for the goddamned best. The blood on his hands would always be there. He's not a good man; she said that once in her article: "Frank Castle is a good man." Bullshit.

Remembering the horrible things he had done while overseas, maybe he never was a good man. Maybe he'd been wearing a mask when he was here; the real him, hiding behind smiles and cheer when he was with his family. He joined the military because he wanted to fight, to hurt people. He learned discipline and eventually that desire disappeared. Or maybe it didn't.

 _Frank._

He finally stood up and his knee ached from where he'd landed. He took a few seconds to steady himself and then he started the trip back to his apartment. The night was calmer now, he thought; fewer voices, fewer horns honking. His knee gave him hell during the walk but he didn't flinch. It took time to get back but when he walked inside, he caught the reflection of himself in the mirror above the sink. He had blood splattered on his face, neck, and shirt; it must have happened when the hammer flew from his hands.

His hands… he looked down and, in the light, the image was far more striking. In the moonlight, he could ignore the torn skin pieces and the places where the blood oozed from blisters, but not here in the light. Turning the water on stung and the soap burned every bit of his skin; he wetted his face and neck to wash the blood off and wrapped some gauze over the open wounds on his palms. The next day was a workday, but he could wear some gloves this time.

The following days and nights were much the same. His feet tried to lead him but he fought it; turning suddenly and walking briskly in another direction, any other direction.

 _Just stay away from me_.

 _I'm done, Frank!_

 _I am dead._

Before he realized where he was, he looked up to see headstones and high, wrought iron fencing. His hands were shaking, but not from the cold. He had the strongest desire to leave, to walk back to Karen's and sit on the roof and watch her; hell, he'd even walk to her door and bang until she let him in. But he didn't do that; he wouldn't. He walked to the gate and looked around; he wondered if kids were in there, vandalizing or hooking up and he got angry. He shouted in his gruff, growling voice "If any damn kids are here fucking with these graves, they had better run the fuck off now!" At first, there was no sound but within a few seconds, he heard voices and loud footsteps running off, throwing back curses aimed at him.

He glared after them and imagined running after them, telling them who he was and promising he'd find them if they came back…but he stayed put and waited. The sounds disappeared quickly and he picked his foot up to begin walking inside, but stopped. He closed his eyes and breathed; then his feet started moving. He'd visited his family before but it had been a while. He didn't really feel that they were here, anyway. Maybe their headstones were here, stating their names and years of life but _they_ weren't here. They were gone.

His feet carried him along the path for what felt like forever before he saw the spot to turn right and make his way deeper into the rows. He hadn't been there more than half a dozen times since he woke up from his coma, but he knew where to go. He knew. The stones were there: two small stones and one larger one that was shaped like the Virgin Mary, he thought, with her hands outstretched toward the two smaller stones and her head turned down in sorrow. He imagined that she was truly crying for the loss of his family while she stood over their stones. He imagined that she was also crying for him; not for his loss but for who he'd become.

 _Frank_.

He shut his eyes and focused on breathing, on the sounds around him, on anything _real_ and ignored that voice. He shook his head and looked again at the stones in front of him: Lisa Castle, beloved daughter; Frank Castle Jr., beloved son; Maria Castle, beloved wife and mother. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists and his breathing picked up with the tide of his anger and pain.

 _It's okay, Frank_.

"Stop," he said, softly, feeling the anger subside. But not the pain. He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes, that sensation of fullness and his vision became blurry as the tears came on. Since he'd finished his business, it seemed like all he did was cry, cry, cry. Even before that, when he was with Karen; he cried in the hospital, he cried in the prison; he cried in the damn diner. Sure, his tears didn't always fall but he felt them burn his eyes as he held them in.

 _You deserve more than this_.

"Stop," he said again, then followed with "please." The word itself was arbitrary because he knew that the voice did not belong to Maria. He could hardly beg her to stop doing something she would never do. She would want him to be faithful. He still saw himself as a married man and the idea of seeking out another woman filled him with so many strange emotions, he chose not to think of it. Truly, he had not considered it much; when he woke from the coma, all he had was his vengeance. He'd seen beautiful women all over the place but it was like looking at a plain wall – they elicited no feeling in him.

But something had begun to bloom inside him while he laid in his bed at the hospital, listening to Karen Page tell him what his goddamn house looked like. He knew that she didn't judge him when he couldn't remember what state the place had been in. She recalled the images for him, describing the state of his life before it ended with them. His family.

When she came to him in the hospital and even in the prison, she was not afraid of him. She stared him right in the face and smacked him down when he gave her shit; she didn't let him get away with his wallowing. She reached into his busted chest and pumped just enough life and hope in there that he could keep going. If it hadn't been for her insistence, her perseverance, he couldn't honestly say that he would have ever found out about Schoonover.

He put the pieces together after that night on the boat, but she was right when she decided that looking that shit over with her would help. She was so smart; she saw things he didn't. She _believed_ in him and he told her _Just stay away from me_.

 _It's okay_.

When he opened his eyes again, he realized that he was kneeling down on the grass and his eyes ached from all of the tears. He ached from the sobs that had rocketed through his whole body. He coughed and choked back the rest of the tears, wiping at his face and stumbling away. He trekked back to his apartment and caught sight of himself in the mirror again, but this time it wasn't blood he saw. His eyes were puffy and red but he looked away quickly and walked to his bed. He threw his clothes off and lay down, falling into a heavy sleep.

That night, he dreamt of Maria. She was kissing him awake, talking to him, sweetly, about how tired he must have been to sleep for so long. She smelled wonderful and he could tell that she had been cooking. She was so beautiful; her smile was infectious. She got up and began to leave the room. Then, a masked man entered and shot her. He felt the blood and brain matter hit his skin and he screamed. He jerked up in bed and looked around; it felt so real.

He left the apartment and went to the construction site; he was screaming as he swung the hammer, over and over, bringing the walls down around him. He was there for less than an hour when that ugly red Charger squealed into the parking lot. His breathing was heavy as he watched the scene unfold.

He gripped the hammer tighter and began walking down the stairs.


	3. Breath

_Author's Note: Hello! Here is chapter 3. I wanted to express my gratitude for all of the likes and follows this story has received. Thank you!_

* * *

 _So sacrifice yourself_

 _And let me have what's left._

 _I know that I can find_

 _The fire in your eyes._

Weeks passed and Frank became aware of his stalker, "Micro;" whoever he was, he knew that Frank was alive. That being the case, he must have learned it from someone. The list of people who knew about his "alive" status was pretty short and he couldn't imagine either of them telling a soul. But he had to ask…and he sure wasn't looking forward to these conversations.

But it was the second part of what he needed to ask that really had him worried. He had people he could go to; he really did. He could reach out to contacts he had made while he was _punishing_ , or, hell, he could reach out to Billy Russo, his old friend; the revelation that he was actually _alive_ wouldn't be worse than the shit that they wrote about him in the papers. He could have even asked Curtis to reach out to his old contacts. But no, he _wanted_ to ask her for help.

 _You deserve more than this_.

He sighed, struggling to find the energy to argue with something that didn't exist. So he got dressed, pulling on blue jeans and a white t-shirt, then he zipped up his hoodie and headed to the building that Curt's group was held in. The walk was long but not exhaustive and he arrived toward the end of the meeting hour. He listened in for a few minutes and had to suppress his own memories of his tours, of his war. He chose to step outside instead and wait, soaking in the sunlight while it was still around. It was a crisp, clear morning, but heading for winter; he could feel it. When the Vets started to exit the building, he slipped inside and waited until Curtis was alone.

Their talk was brief, as he knew it would be. Curtis wouldn't tell anyone about him; it was hardly a question worth asking. It was mostly a formality that he had to complete to be able to move forward. A box to check. His next step was to approach Karen.

"Shit," he whispered, rubbing his hands over his beard. He imagined a number of scenarios he could try. He could send her a note via courier, asking her to meet him, but she might think that was some sort of trap. He could call her…but he didn't have a phone. He could knock on her apartment door, which he decided was the best, most direct and safest bet. But as he was walking there, he realized that if he hurried, he could intercept her on her way home from work for the day.

He was only a little bit ashamed to realize that he had her daily routine memorized, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He grabbed a blanket and rushed to the _Daily Bulletin_ 's offices. He wrapped the blanket over his body and head, covering his face. He peeked out regularly, checking the time, and he waited for her. It wasn't long before she came into view wearing her hair loose with a hint of a curl and one of those tight skirts under a beige jacket. He could feel his heart begin to pound hard and fast, and his skin was heating up; it was thirty damn degrees outside and he was sweating. "The big, bad Punisher," he whispered, "Nervous." His breathing became harsher, shaky even, but he only had one shot to get her attention.

He rallied himself and said, "Say lady, I'm really hungry." She stopped and turned, "You got any change? Please?" She pulled out her wallet and immediately gave him a handful of dollars, then turned to leave. "Thanks, Karen," he said, knowing she would stop. She turned around with such a strange expression on her face, he was startled. "You're still all heart, huh?" He said to ease the tension, mostly for himself.

She looked around and said, quietly, "Things got this bad, Frank?" As he stood in front of her, seeing her in the sunlight, he realized that he had never been this close to her during the day before. The sun made her hair look golden.

"I wanted to say hello," he said. She looked like she was trying _not_ to smile. "I thought I'd try my luck out here, not get my head blown off." She almost laughed and he asked, "You still got that hand-cannon?"

She patted her purse and said, "You better believe it."

He smiled, "Atta girl."

Her look softened when she asked, "What the hell are you doing out here?"

When he asked to talk to her, his voice shook and he knew she heard it. Before he knew it, though, they were walking together to her apartment. He noticed that she kept looking at him, but the expression on her face was… disinterested, guarded; she kept three or more feet between them and barely met his eyes. He'd begun to worry that this was a bad idea and was considering taking off when they arrived at a building he recognized. Without meaning to, his eyes moved to the adjacent building, checking out the roof; Karen watched him, followed his gaze, but said nothing.

Their conversation started off exactly how he anticipated. "Drink?" she offered, dropping her coat on the back of her couch.

"Sure," he said. He looked around her place, admiring how much better it looked from the inside. "I wasn't sure you'd still talk to me."

She hesitated as she pulled two beers out of the fridge. "I wasn't either," she said, honestly. As she popped the caps off of the bottles, she said, "You look well." She brought his beer over and said, "Rocking the whole, uh, hipster thing."

He knew it was a tease; he knew she was making a joke with him and he knew he'd better not fuck it up. "Been flirting with the idea of going full man-bun. You think I could pull that off?" His tone was light, playful even.

Her face changed; hardened again. "Where have you been?"

He knew this was sensitive; knew he had to toe the line. He didn't want to push her away again; he'd already made it farther than he actually believed he would. He took a drink of his beer and said, "I had business, Karen. I had to finish."

She didn't meet his eyes as she said, "And you _finished it_?"

He knew he couldn't answer that; he knew he was already millimeters from going over that thin line that allowed him to be this close to her. "Look, Karen, there's, uh… there's somebody that knows I'm still alive. I need to know if you said anything."

"God, no," she said, the tone she'd had a moment ago suddenly vanished. "No Frank, you should know me better than that. I would never –" He knew she hadn't mentioned a word; he knew he could trust her but he had to ask.

Bringing up his second question, however, was different; he felt that familiar nervous tension settle in his stomach. "You want to say no, you say no, but I could really use your help." He was asking her for help and it could end in a man's death. He knew it, she knew it.

Her expression remained the same as it was outside; no smiles, limited responses, even a hint of anger. "You want me to help you find them?"

"I do," he said. "Look, this guy calls himself 'Micro,' right? Like that's supposed to mean something. He's been watching me. I think he's some kind of spook and he's gotta be a good one, 'cause I didn't see him coming."

She had taken a couple of drinks from her beer as he spoke. "And all you've got is a name?"

"He said something about us both being 'dead men,' right? About me not being the only ghost in New York." He was getting more and more nervous because she wasn't saying anything. She was _talking_ but she was a statue; her eyes held no warmth; her mouth was a flat line.

She barely looked up at him when she asked, "How do I contact you?" It was when he pulled the potted flowers out of his canvas duffle bag that he saw it: a subtle change in her demeanor. She had a small hint of a smile and her tone softened. He tried to hold her gaze but she seemed to pull that guard back around herself. "You brought me flowers?" He could hear the smile in her voice but there was no hint of one on her face.

"I'm an old-fashioned kinda guy," he said. "I was thinking, if you had something, you could put the flowers in the window." She was still looking at the flowers. "I'll call you."

"Okay," she said, looking up at him.

"Okay," he said, with a hint of a smile but that armor she hid behind was so thick, he began to feel that he had fucked it up beyond repair.

"Okay," she said again, but it felt final. It felt like he was dismissed.

"Thanks, Karen," he said, closing up his duffle bag; his voice betrayed the fact that he felt dismally hopeless but he wanted to leave before she saw it on his face. "Thanks for the beer." He turned to leave but she was up and right there so suddenly, he only managed a weak "Hey," and her arms wrapped around him. He held her with one arm, pressing his nose into her neck; he breathed in the smell of her shampoo.

 _You deserve this_.

He closed his eyes and pulled away, feeling an urge so powerful that he had to leave. "It's just really good to see you," she whispered to him. He felt that in his gut; the softness had returned to her expression and she wanted to say more. He did too; so much more, but he made his way to the door. The walk back to his apartment felt so familiar and yet not; all those nights that he had walked home from watching her… the reality was so different in daylight.

"I'm a married man," he said to himself, out loud, as if he were walking on quiet empty streets, except he wasn't. He was surrounded by people. "I'm married." He said again.

 _Frank_.

He shook his head and growled, picking up the pace and running all the way back to the apartment. It was miles that he ran but he barely felt it. Once he was inside, he pulled out the photo and stared at it. He ran his fingers over their faces and focused on them, on their smiles, and he remembered how they died.

 _It's okay._

"No, it's not okay." He began grinding his teeth and focused on the picture; he ran his fingers over Maria and thought of their wedding. Her dress was huge and fluffy, but she looked so beautiful. She always looked so beautiful; skinny and exercising with him, or pregnant and eating pickles dipped in mustard; she was gorgeous and he was so lucky.

But that wasn't always how they had felt about one another. He recalled how she had felt when he told her he was going back for another tour after the second rotation. He recalled the fights, the anger, and the pain. But this wasn't a fight that had ended badly, he reminded himself. She was taken from him. Sure, they had problems but he never strayed even when he was thousands of miles away and watching his friends, married and not, going out and hooking up. He didn't think he deserved a cookie for not sleeping around but that feeling was still there; the fidelity, the faithfulness. This feeling for Karen, it was confused; that's all it was.

 _Frank_.

Just confused and these feelings were normal. Karen helped him through a lot of shit; she was an emotional support for him when he had _no one_. It didn't matter that her hair was fucking soft and he still smelled like her from that hug; it didn't matter that her eyes were seared into his brain with that look she gave him after the hug. He could tell there were so many other things she wanted to say; he knew she wanted him to stay so she could talk about the fact that Murdock was gone and she rarely spent time with Nelson. She wanted to tell him that she was lonely. She wanted to tell him that she'd missed him.

Well, he missed her too. Fuck, he missed her. He missed that steely look she gave him when he was being a prick; he missed that smile, however faint it was today. He missed the sound of her voice. God, he _missed_ her.

He realized that he was grinding his teeth again and let his jaw relax. All those months ago when she was standing in front of him in the hospital, then at the prison, he had wanted to reach out and hold her. He wanted to grab her and hold on with _two hands_. But's he's married and even if his wife and family are in the ground, he'll be faithful.

The thing about Karen was, though, that she would understand that; even expect it. She could be thinking the same things as he was and she would act toward him like any other man who was unavailable. Maybe that was the most accurate word for his situation: unavailable. Married; widowed; damaged; fucking hearing his dead wife's voice; heartbroken; adrift; alone. He knew that, if he were inclined to move forward with something with Karen, she would never make the first move. He knew that about her and he appreciated it. But he couldn't imagine that he'd ever be ready for that. But she would be so respectful and patient; they could go on 200 dates and never even hold hands and, he would bet fifty bucks, she would say "Okay" just like she did today.

But if they did move forward, he could imagine how it would go. He'd cook her dinner; something that would take a lot of work but looked simple so he'd feel like he'd done something to earn her. Something more than saving her life over and over; something _normal_. After they ate, they'd sit on her couch and talk and he'd tuck her hair behind her ear, but his touch would linger on her face. She'd know what it meant; they both would, but she would wait. She'd let him take his time and warm up to it.

She'd let him take his time with all of it. He'd use his hands, his mouth, then maybe both and make her come over and over and then, when her body was limp and her legs shook with any effort, he'd –

His eyes burst open and he realized that his heart was pounding; he could hear his blood pumping in his ears and he was surprised he had so much blood left after he recognized that distinct tight feeling in his pants. He jumped up from his bed and went to the sink, splashing water on his face and neck, trying to control his breathing. "I'm married," he said, simply.

 _It's okay…_

He slapped his cheeks and shook himself again. He thought about going for a walk, but just his luck he'd head back to Karen's and – " _Married_ ," he reminded his reflection. Married, married, married.

 _Widowed_.

At that, his heart skipped a beat. Sleep did not come to him that night for _hours_ ; his thoughts drifted as usual and when he finally fell asleep, his dreams were dark and painful. Maria, next to him in bed; she kissed him awake again. She talked to him about all the time they had to spend together now; she turned to leave and the masked soldier shot her. He woke in a cold sweat, panting; his throat hurt so he knew that his screams in his nightmare carried over to this side.

He lay back on the bed and slammed his fist into the wall to the right of his head, then slammed his elbow into the headboard. He wouldn't be going back to sleep that night, so he got up and got cleaned up. Now that he had something to look forward to, (finding Micro, not seeing Karen) he went to the small 24-hour store and spent some time stocking up on food. Tuna, beans, canned chicken, canned vegetables. By the time he returned to his apartment, the sun was rising.

Later, he met with Curt at the end of his group and they talked about books; he told Curt what he was doing and that he had reached out to Karen. Curtis didn't say that he was surprised she knew Frank was alive; but he did give him a look. The same look that he gave Frank when he started seeing Maria; Frank ignored it.

Since he had asked Karen to look into something for him, he felt that he had a legitimate reason to wander her neighborhood once a day. Sometimes twice. He only went up to the rooftop one night and he noticed that the window was still open. But now, she was sitting nearer to it, still sitting with her right side to the window and her laptop open in front of her. With the coming cold, she should be sitting further away. He wondered if she was sitting closer because she knew he was watching, or at least because she assumed he would be. This time, she was wearing a spaghetti strap dress and her long, blond hair was flipped on her left shoulder which gave him a view of her neck, chest, and shoulder. He bit his bottom lip and took a deep breath.

 _It's okay_.

He was knocked from his reverie but hesitated, not wanting to leave yet. The blue computer light made the skin on her face, neck, and exposed part of her chest the same color as the moon. It took him a few extra minutes to make himself leave, but as he was walking to the fire escape, he saw her computer light disappear. He wondered if she was waiting up for him; he wondered if she was researching "Micro." He wondered how the skin of her neck would feel against his calloused hands.

He shut that thought down and made his way down the fire escape to return home. He decided that a safer bet would be to return during the day, rather than watching her at night. During the day, she would be fully dressed.

Surely enough, the next day, he saw the flowers in the window.


	4. Die For You

_Author's note: Hi! Here is chapter 4. I feel like this one is the weakest chapter so far and I need some critiques. Please comment and let me know what you think! I am so grateful for the favs/follows!_

* * *

 _Because I know you're lost when you run away_

 _Into the same black holes and black mistakes._

 _Taking all my will just run alone._

 _When are you coming home?_

Between the time that he figured out how Micro was watching him and the night that he locked himself in the trunk of Lieberman's car, he shaved his beard and cut his hair short again. Karen's information panned out and Frank located "Micro," a.k.a. David Lieberman. While his ultimate goal was to find this guy and do what was necessary to shut him down if he had to, that was not how the next few weeks passed. Not even close. It turned out the Lieberman had a lot of answers that Frank needed; answers that led him to more questions.

The information that he had, the information he could provide, the leads they developed working together, gave Frank more purpose than he had in months. David's life was taken from him by the same people that took Frank's family from him. The goddamn plot was so thick, he needed the help to wade through it; it led to the CIA, Homeland Security, and back to his old unit. This time, it led to real answers beyond that power hungry District Attorney that couldn't clear a fucking park to perform a sting. It went beyond Schoonover. It had nearly killed him over and over.

But the information that David had was also the reason why Homeland Security was onto them. Dinah Madani, an agent who Lieberman had reached out to in the past, one he had tried to get help from, was very recently made the acting Agent-in-Charge after Frank paid a visit to her predecessor. And she knew Frank was alive. He tried not to think about how much that fact complicated the job they had to do; he tried not to think about what could happen.

They were in the basement when David shouted to Frank, over his shoulder, "Frank, you've got mail."

Frank walked into the center of the room where Lieberman's computers and monitors were all set up. He looked at the screen that was pointed at Karen's window and saw that the flowers were on the sill. He'd been pretty pissed when he saw the camera pointed at the window the first time. He knew Karen wouldn't like it; she'd feel he had intruded; hell, he felt it was intrusive. But right now, he was glad for it. He had been there to check on her two days ago but hadn't been intending to go back for a few days. With all that was going on, he had been busier; less sleep was actually beneficial to their work. The nightmares were just as bad, sometimes worse.

"I'll be back," he said, chewing on some of Lieberman's food.

"You want to tell me how Karen Page fits in?" David said as Frank walked away.

"Nope," he replied, simply.

He and Karen agreed to meet at the same place they had previously. The sound of the water, the cold wind, the night sky, and her eyes all added up to make this the most beautiful spot in the city. A city full of thieves, rapists, and liars. But she was in this city and that made it better somehow. As he approached, she was standing by the railing, looking at the water.

"Hey," he said.

She smiled and turned to him, "Frank." He walked over and stood right next to her, looking out at the water. "So I had an interesting day." She proceeded to tell him about her meeting with the SAC of Homeland Security. "And guess who she wanted to talk about?" He smirked.

"So you met Madani, huh?"

Karen hesitated for a moment before saying, "I think she knows you're alive." He told her that he had saved Madani from a car that was upside down. "Well then I guess you kinda had to, didn't you?" He could swear that she was teasing him; she was still smiling.

"I guess," he responded, looking down; the big, bad Punisher…nervous.

"Did you have anything to do with that upside down car?" Her question wasn't a shock to him but her tone was playful; affectionate, even. His heart was beating so fast; this felt like flirting. Frank and Karen flirting while talking about attempted murder.

 _It's okay_.

"Kinda," he said.

"I take it David Lieberman had the answers you were looking for?" She said and her tone was more cautious. He wondered if she, too, was trying to toe that line.

"Some," he said. "The same people who came after me came after him."

She looked concerned as she asked, "Is he alive?" He knew she wasn't asking if he had killed him.

"He was smart, got out ahead of it. Played possum." He met her eyes and felt his body tense and he reoriented his mind. "He kept his family safe, Karen." He stared out at the water, letting the familiar pain wash over him. "You know, I've been… thinking about my son, Frankie." It wasn't necessarily a lie; more like a diversion, which is what Frank needed right then. So he told Karen a story about coming home early from a deployment and returning home to find his family fighting and his son in trouble. He explained the image that awaited him: his son had painted a Marine on the wall of their home. "He said, 'Marines scare off bad guys, daddy. When you're not here, it's my job to protect our girls.'" The pain that this evoked in him was sharp and bitter; the memory of how many times he had left his family to do what he believed was right. All of the time he had lost with them was a heavy weight in his chest. "They're better off without me, Karen. Me being with them, me being by their side, it got them killed." He saw Karen's eyes welling up and he wanted to reach out to her, but he wouldn't. Couldn't. "I need… I need to find these bastards that took 'em from me. I gotta kill 'em," he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

Karen's tears were falling freely and she moved to walk away with her hand covering her mouth, holding something in. He thought she was leaving, but she stopped. "And where does that end, Frank? Because… I look at you and… my heart breaks because all I can see is just this endless… echoing loneliness."

He was quick to say, "I'm not lonely, Karen." Which was such an enormous lie, he felt guilty for being so dishonest.

"Bullshit," she said, "we are all lonely. Sometimes I think that's all that life is; we're all just fighting not to be alone." He was fighting himself to stay put and not cross the distance.

"So what do you want?" He asked. "What should I do? Should I let it go?"

"No, but I want there to be an after!" She said, and then quickly added, "For you."

 _After_. A fire began to burn inside of him or maybe it had been there all along; she was arguing that he should cooperate with Madani or allow her to expose those responsible. Images flashed of Karen's article hitting newsstands, followed by an obituary for the journalist herself. The thought made him sick. "These guys decide what the truth is. You don't get to do that." She was no longer looking him in the eyes and he knew why. He knew she had realized she had hit the limit of fighting with Frank Castle; no one ever wins, not really. That image seared itself in his mind; her death, another loss that he could have prevented. "Look," he began, softer this time. "I can't go after these guys and keep you safe," he argued and she interrupted him, saying he doesn't need to keep her safe. "What are you talking about, I don't need to?" He growls. "My family is gone, because of what I know. They're gone!"

She had shut her eyes; her mouth a hard line and her body language screaming surrender. He hated himself for causing her to become so deflated; he cursed himself for the pain he caused her. "Karen, I – hey," he whispered, "I cannot let that happen to you, you got that?" His voice was pleading with her to let it be, to allow him to finish. "I cannot let that happen." He wanted to imagine that he could be something when it was over; that he could be something to her. She wouldn't meet his eyes still and he was feeling weak, so weak. The image of her death, the reminder of what he had lost, it amounted to more pain than he believed he could bear. It was at that moment that he realized how close he was standing to her; he could see the tears still wet on her cheeks. He leaned in closer and said, "Please." Then he pressed a kiss to her cheek; if she had moved and met his lips, he wouldn't have stopped her. But she didn't. He knew she would let him take his time; he knew she always would.

He stepped away from her and she finally met his eyes; he wanted to step back into her space but he felt that if he did, he wouldn't be able to go back to Lieberman's basement. If he let himself kiss her and hold her, really hold her, he might lose his rage. If he lost his rage, he would lose Maria.

 _It's okay_.

He stepped back another few steps and began walking. She didn't try to stop him, or call out; he looked back a few times and he knew she was crying more. He knew he'd done that. And he hated himself for it. There he was, the big bad Punisher, and he couldn't help but keep looking back at her. She was still watching him, too.

But he wouldn't turn around. Because Karen Page is his respite; she's a safe place for him to go and feel warm and content. But he can't be those things. Not now, maybe not ever. All he had was the pain, the rage, and the knowledge that by the end of this, he would have found peace. One way or another.

Later, he was lying on the small bed in the dark basement, trying to find some rest. Memory was a strange thing for Frank; when he needed power and fuel, his mind conjured images of his family lying dead surrounded by painted horses whose faces were forever frozen in fright. But in the quiet moments when he needed control his rage, or control another strong emotion that was bubbling over, his mind brought him back to his tours. In those places, surrounded by enemies that wanted to kill him, he had so little control it felt like drowning sometimes. He was staring at the ceiling and right then, he felt like he was back there, drowning in it. But the emotions that were raging inside of him right then were absolutely different; feelings he hadn't experienced in… he couldn't even remember how long.

It was almost unfamiliar, but not quite. His palm was pressed against his abdomen and he could feel his heart pounding underneath it. He could still smell her; the feel the smooth skin on his lips. _I want there to be an after_ , she had said. He allowed those words to bounce around in his head and the feeling intensified: longing.

He rubbed his hands over his face, roughly, and got up from the bed. He walked past Lieberman watching his family on the cameras and into the bathroom. He had wondered what this place had been before it became this dilapidated structure that 'Micro' had moved into. It had a large bathroom complete with three shower stalls, but it wasn't shaped like a gym. He didn't care all that much, honestly. He pulled his clothes off and started the shower furthest from the door and waited for the water to turn hot. He stepped into the shower and stood underneath the spray; the way that the droplets fell down his back, he could imagine that they were her fingers. He imagined her arms wrapping around his chest, pressing he body against his back, running her hands over his torso. He used his own hands, running them along his body; if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was her. He let his head lull backward as if it would fall onto her shoulder but it fell straight in the path of the spray. He coughed and shook his head, wiped the water from his face, and grabbed the bar of soap. He tried to forget the feeling that had been coming over him but his body was not agreeing with him.

 _It's okay_.

He groaned, loudly; frustration and arousal mixing in his chest. "Stop," he growled loudly. "Please stop."

 _You deserve more than this_.

"Please," he begged again. His hands were shaking as he rinsed the soap off and scrubbed his scalp, harder than necessary.

 _Frank_.

"No," he growled, louder. He stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel, rubbing it across his chest and abdomen, but avoiding his lower body. Instead he pulled his jeans on and buckled his belt, very carefully, but it still made him hiss as his pulled the zipper up. He leaned against the cold wall and shut his eyes, focusing on his breathing. _She'd let me make the first move_ , he remembered thinking, and with that thought, his arousal was ignited again. _She'd let me take my time_. He felt his hands moving down his body, his skin feeling hotter than it had inside the shower. He groaned when his hand brushed his belt; he barely registered what was happening before he had his belt undone, and then he was pushing his pants down his hips. He had enough wherewithal to step back into the shower and turn the water on. When he had kissed her cheek, he heard her breath hitch and that sound echoed in his ears over and over. He imagined that she'd make that sound when he undressed her, pulled her panties off; she make that sound when he used his lips and tongue on her nipples and his hands running up her thighs. Her hips would lift up; her whole body reaching out to have him. All of him.

He imagined how it would feel to be inside her…

He choked out a sob and a growl as his climax overtook him; he continued thrusting his hips and then, he fell back against the wall.

He hadn't done that in a long time. He hadn't even thought of it in years. When he was deployed, there was no privacy; when he was home, he had Maria. After she was gone, his body seemingly cinched the blood flow to keep itself from betraying the mission. Realistically, he had been too grieved to think of something beyond his rage.

Now, he wasn't necessarily ready to take that step but he could imagine the day he could be. He could even imagine that, maybe, he could be a man interested in a woman; maybe, even a woman with a nose for trouble. He could still be Frank, even still be the Punisher – of course, that nose of hers is going to get her into trouble. He'd be there, always; he'd keep her safe.


	5. Away

_Author's Note: Hi all! Here is chapter 5; I have concerns about the pacing, so please be honest in any reviews. It really helps and I greatly appreciate them! This story is intended to be totally S1 compliant with my own additions of Frank's thoughts and reasoning. But it won't end at the end of S1; I have lots of ideas for how it will continue. Please let me know what you think as we go along._

* * *

 _I see you 'cause you won't get out of my way._

 _I hear you 'cause you won't quit screaming my name._

 _I feel you 'cause you won't stop touching my skin._

 _I need you; they're coming to take you away._

In the weeks following, David and Frank had uncovered a lot of pieces of the puzzle. The pieces were starting to form a picture that connected Blacksmith, a.k.a. Schoonover to the CIA spook William Rawlins. It wasn't substantial enough to make a case but David wanted to go to Madani with what they had. He believed that she could take them all down and he could go home to his family. Initially Frank was unwilling to agree to that; his goal wasn't justice; his goal was revenge. His goal was to have his bare hands on William Rawlins and finish the job he'd started in the Middle East all those years ago.

But in the midst of their investigation and strategizing, – and arguing – multiple explosions rocked the city and, soon, word had come that the bomber had sent letters to Karen. Frank had tried to stay out of it; Karen was tough and he'd seen her handle herself before. But she'd gone on the radio and aggravated this guy; she was playing with fire and put a goddamn target on her back. But the kid had made a mistake; he'd ended his radio show by quoting some Latin: "Sic semper tyrannis" and Frank knew who it was. He begged David to use his skills to find the kid; he described him but knew only his first name.

"Okay, what happens when I find him?" David asked, as if he didn't already know.

"What do you think happens?" Frank asked, incredulously. "This piece of shit's going after Karen!"

"What the deal with you two?" David asked, now demanding an answer to the question Frank had brushed off before.

"The _deal_ is just that nobody goes after her, okay? Not on my watch." _I have to keep her safe._

David was abashed, "You want to go after this guy?"

"You're goddamn right," Frank responded, his voice was a low growl. "What would you do if it was Sarah? If there was some maniac after her? What would you do?"

"Sarah's my wife; Sarah's my family!" David shot back.

Frank slammed the chair over and then picked it up, looking David in the face. "Listen to me; listen. I'm only going to say this once. So is Karen." He slammed his hand down on the table. "If something happens to her, I –" he paused, the words he hadn't been able to say to her were sitting like marbles in this mouth. _I can't lose you, Karen._ "Just…please."

"Okay," David said, holding a hand up in a 'stay calm' gesture.

"Thank you," Frank whispered, standing and stalking away. In less than an hour, David had a name and an address for this shit. Lewis Wilson; Army veteran; twenty-six years old. Frank was at his place, scouting it out, but the longer he sat in the van and waited, the more his blood boiled. He shouldn't have done it, but he was weak; Karen Page made him weak. He pulled out the phone David gave him and called Karen's cell. Their talk was brief, but long enough that she knew his intentions in this matter and enough that he knew she was safe, surrounded by the FBI.

Then he got a call from David giving him a new address and more incentive to deal with this himself: Curtis. But something about David's voice made Frank anxious; something deflective. But he couldn't deal with it right then; he had to get to that address.

It was a trap, of course, but Frank got through to Wilson enough to save Curtis' life. However, he was badly beaten and needed help; luckily the police were already on the way. Unluckily, Frank had to evade dozens of police to get back on Lewis' trail because his next goal was Karen. As he wound his way through alleys, over hedges and fences, Frank was stopped by a patrol car and had to deal with the two officers who attempted to stop him. Doing so, his face was everywhere; the world – having been blissfully unaware of his 'alive' status – now knew that the big, bad Punisher was alive. But they also seemed to think that he and Lewis were some sort of team. That made his job much, much more difficult.

Frank knew that Karen and the Senator were holed up at a "safe location" in a hotel downtown. However, if Frank could be made aware, so could Lewis. He arrived and evaded detection for the most part, having contacted his friend, Billy Russo, to ask for his help in protecting the targets. But none of it went as it should have; Lewis got in the room and had killed the security guards; he had his gun pointed at Karen's fucking head when Frank burst in. He took three bullets in the back jumping in front of her and was nearly killed by security. That fucking kid had gotten Karen; he had that bomb pressed against her back, walking her to the elevators. Frank's blood was boiling but he had a sense of desperation as he watched Karen, cheeks wet and eyes terrified, being held across the chest by a fucking piece of shit.

"I will come for you," he said and watched, helplessly as the elevator doors closed. The security attacked immediately; Billy's team as well as police. Frank was down the hall, avoiding gunshots and using a human shield at one point, desperate to reach the stairwell. He made it but was a little worse for wear when Madani showed up. He had no intention of stopping; told her to shoot him or let him go. She told him to stop when a gunshot rang out and his ears were ringing; sharp pain in his head and so much wetness all over the right side of his head and trickling over his shoulder. He heard Madani shouting at someone and Frank knew that fucking voice.

"Billy?" He shouted up, getting short looks at his "friend;" the one who had promised him safe passage out of the country; the one who had saved his life overseas. Frank's options were limited then, but the door burst open to the stairwell and dozens of officers charged in, grabbing Billy and Madani, putting them in cuffs and ignoring their claims of who they were. Frank had one shot and he took it; he used the firehose mount to knock one cope out and grabbed the metal hose piece; he wrapped it around his wrist and jumped into the center of the stairwell. The fall was nothing; the sudden jerk and dislocation of his right arm from his shoulder was a bad, bad situation; one he couldn't avoid. He swung over onto the stairs and kept making his way down, bleeding heavily, trying to keep his mind focused through the shear agony coming from his right side, and being overcome by the blind rage he felt at the betrayal by his best friend. How the fuck had this gone so wrong?

But none of that mattered right now, because some little piece of shit had Karen and Frank's arm was dislocated but the kid didn't know that. He was walking toward the double doors leading to the kitchen; he could hear Karen's panicked voice trying to keep the kid calm. _This is not her first rodeo_. "Wilson!" He shouted as he entered. Lewis grabbed Karen again and held her against him, holding out the Deadman switch. Now he was standing in a stainless steel kitchen in the basement of a hotel, trying to reason with this kid, while also trying to get Karen to read between the lines. She did; she always understood him. She had her right hand in her purse, her left hand gripping that white wire, and he was screaming "Do it now, Karen, now!"

The next few moments were a blur; but he was telling Karen to run; she was so stubborn. The kid was barricaded in the walk-in refrigerator and he was lucky he'd run in there because Frank's mind kept replaying the way Karen looked when that kid was backing her into the elevator and that bomb pressed against her back. He was seeing how she had looked when he'd walked into the kitchen and Lewis' fucking filthy hands were on her. Frank would have ripped that kid's arm off, Deadman switch intact, if it meant keeping that look off of her face forever.

But could he? Every time she had been hurt or in danger since he'd shown up in her life, shooting a damn gun at her, he felt could be blamed on him. If she hadn't written about him, this filth wouldn't have targeted her. He put her in danger over and over and now, this kid was plugging that wire back into the switch, crying and saying some prayer. "Karen go, get out of here!"

"Hell no! Come on!"

She wasn't leaving, he realized, and that bomb was ready. He went on instinct; turned and ran at her, grabbing her and tackling her behind a pillar and covering her body with his, just as the fridge door flew off. When he opened his eyes, his ears were ringing and Karen had reached out for him. He only meant to check her head for wounds but his hand held her cheek; he looked her over and asked, "You okay?" as if she could be after a damn bomb, but she nodded her head.

He looked around as they stood up and the only concrete thought he had was _I need to get away from her. I'm no good. She could have died_. The thought struck him hard and he began heading slowly, painfully, to the door but she stopped him.

Her plan was nuts but it was all they had. He released the magazine from the gun and wrapped his good arm around her, pressed the barrel to her chin. Her body hid the worst of his injuries. She was pressed so close to him; her hair was so soft on his skin and, even under the circumstances – gun shots, explosions, being pressed against that piece of shit – she smelled amazing. But he had a gun pressed to her head and the cops were standing ten feet away. But the plan worked and they were backing into a different elevator. Alone.

 _I'm no good I'm no good I'm no good_ his mind kept repeating, over and over to drown out Maria's voice. He had to get out; he was looking for an exit and he leaped up to push the door open into the elevator shaft. But Karen was saying his name, touching him, pointing out shrapnel in his dislocated arm; their faces were inches apart. _I can never see you again_. That thought was so strong, he gave into his unwise desires, his _need_ for her. He leaned closer to her and she pressed her forehead against his.

 _You deserve this, Frank_.

For a moment, he felt that he _did_ deserve this, but then he heard her whisper "Go, go," and he was pulling back. He knew he had tears in his eyes. He knew she wanted to say more. _I'm not coming to see you anymore_ , he thought; but he said "Take care, Karen."

He climbed the elevator shaft to the top, snuck onto the roof, and found the zip line he had set up before he entered the building. Of course he had a way out; there was no way Frank Castle went into a building without having a way out.

He knew that Lieberman went to Madani and it pissed him off but it _was_ the plan they'd agreed on. But he was furious and it had nothing to do with that. It had everything to do with his goddamn heart breaking. It would never be safe for him to be around Karen after this; it never really was before. He realized that today. If he wasn't inflicting the wounds, someone would use her against him; someone would find out that he loved her.

 _Love_.

He rubbed his hands over his scalp, shut his eyes, and tried to forget that. He would finished this shit and leave; he'd go somewhere she wouldn't find him and no one would hurt her because of him. But Karen fucking Page was relentless and had a nose for trouble; she would never give up.

No, he had to make her _not want_ to find him; he had to keep her safe. He had the break her heart. He considered telling her that he didn't care about her, never did, but he knew she had seen his vulnerability on display in the elevator; she had probably seen it before then. How desperate he must have looked when that little shit had that bomb pressed against her. Relief, anger, and regret flooded him in the elevator and he had cried. He had wanted to say so many things to her, to say he would never let anything happen to her; he'd take every bullet; shield her from every bomb; take a drill to the foot any goddamn day to make sure she stayed safe.

But he didn't say those things to her; he didn't say any of them. Instead, he held her close and let himself bask in her warmth. But never again; he couldn't let his guard down like that and keep her safe. The moment they shared had been precious; it was enough. He would hold onto it.

This shit with William Rawlins was going to come to a head and it might not let him walk away this time. Maybe that's for the best. He didn't have a death wish and he would never pull the trigger to end it all, but he could give Lieberman the chance to be with his family; Frank could let Billy take him instead.

He knew Madani could make that happen; add in a little theatrics to keep Billy from going after Lieberman. He knew that he could go if it meant keeping others safe. Keeping David and Sarah, Zach and Leo, and Karen safe.

He had a call to make.


	6. Wrong Side of Heaven

_Author's Note: Hi! This chapter was really awesome for me because I was able to use the show as a means of Frank working through the stuff he's been dealing with in the story. It follows the episode but there are changes that I hope you all like._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Arms wide open, I stand alone._

 _I'm no hero and I'm not made of stone._

 _Right or wrong? I can hardly tell._

 _I'm on the wrong side of heaven_

 _and the righteous side of hell._

The plan worked perfectly. David Lieberman was dead and Frank was fucking tied to a chair to be tortured. But the one he was waiting for hadn't arrived yet. Rawlins. Until then, Billy just kept talking to him. The talk was simple; his tone reminiscent. Billy Russo, pretty faced boy with eyes like black holes, was looking the basement over. "Nice place you got here," he said, conversationally, as if Frank's death wasn't on his mind.

"It looks better since I decorated with your guys," Frank responded, reminiscing about the team that had tried to get the drop on him; their blood was still everywhere.

"Well there are always more guys." He said, "Somebody always wants to get paid."

"I guess you'd be the expert on that, wouldn't you, Bill?" Frank replied, watching Billy's cheek twitch trying to control his rage.

Billy was talking at him but he wasn't really paying much attention; Frank was thinking about the girl sitting at David's computer; her hands were typing code so fast that Frank barely heard individual key strokes. She wasn't getting anywhere. "Tick tock, Bill, huh? Tick-tock."

Billy folded his arms and asked, calmly, "What was Homeland doing there?"

"I don't know," Frank said.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Billy's black eyes were boring into his head, looking for a hint of falsehood.

"I don't give a shit what you believe," Frank said, simply. "Maybe Lieberman, maybe he set it up behind my back." He shook his head. "Why don't you go ask him? Okay?" Billy's look remained unconvinced and Frank wanted to laugh. "What do you think, Billy? You think I wanted you and Rawlins _under arrest_? Locked up?" He shook his head and continued, "No way. I'm gonna kill you, Bill." Dark eyes met dark eyes and he said, "I'm going to watch you die." _Then I can be done. Then I can go too_.

Billy's tone was amused and he told Frank that this would not end that way; he said "You have one choice left…and that's how you die." Bill almost looked regretful, "That's all I can give you, man."

Then he was asking Frank how to get into the computers, how to access the video and Frank referred him to Lieberman again. It was then that Billy's face changed; a shadow seemed to cross his features as he explained that David was dead, killed by Homeland Security agents. He continued, explaining that the situation they were in had become "unavoidable."

Frank felt a weight in his gut; not for the death of David Lieberman – he knew he was fine. No, for the death of his family. This pain made him strong as he knew it would. "What about my wife and kids? Was that unavoidable?" Frank could see something akin to regret pass his features then. "Did you do it, Bill? Did you pull the trigger on my wife? On my _son_? On my _baby girl_?" _You put Karen in danger, too_ , he recalled.

"No," Bill said, "I wasn't there." He followed it up with some bullshit about how Frank wouldn't be alive if he had been. But then he looked away for a moment and Frank almost believed the sociopath when he finished, "I told them I'd have no part of it."

"But you knew about it didn't you?" Frank said, "Did you know about it, Bill?" He could feel the burn in his eyes as the tears began to fall. When Bill said he had known, Frank said, "She loved you. My kids loved you," but Billy was already _explaining_ how it wasn't supposed to have happened that way and how he would change it if he could; Frank felt ill. "I'm gonna kill you," he said simply. Bill was shaking his head again, saying how that wasn't an option and repeating that Frank's only option was _how you die_ , but Frank wasn't listening. But he did say what Billy wanted; he told him "You win," and asked to be shot. "I wake up most mornings and I want it. I hope for it." The words were a bit too real, honestly; he'd never end it himself but he'd sure as fuck die to protect others. "You don't know shit about that, but you will," He said giving Billy a straight on look, "You will."

Bill was getting angrier, demanding Frank tell him what would happen when the counter hit zero. Frank was still listening to the keystrokes of the girl – maybe 20-years-old. He felt the rage rise in him because he knew they'd promised this girl money to keep her quiet, but she was about to witness torture and, possibly, murder; they'd never let her walk out of here.

After a few more minutes of meaningless talk – Billy bragging about how far he'd come and how he'd made something of himself; he wasn't just an orphan anymore – the reason Frank had done all of this shit walked in. William fucking Rawlins.

That's when the beating started. Each punch with those Kevlar reinforced gloves was harder than the last and Frank was sure he'd lost a tooth. Chuckling around a mouthful of blood, he said, "You hit like a bitch, Rawlins." Another hit, right to the nose.

 _And the images began entering his mind. He was falling back onto a bed with a beautiful woman on top of him; he thought it was Maria but her face was shadowed over. Her skin was soft and she smelled so familiar; her long hair fell over them as she leaned down to kiss him._

Another hit and he was brought back to the room, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. His words were coming out in jumbles; trying to antagonize Rawlins but his mouth wasn't working. His fucking face hurt so badly and that piece of shit was smiling like he was smelling fresh cooked fucking pie.

 _But then Frank was back in the dark again and Maria was moving her hips, faster and faster, and his hands were all over her breasts. He sat up and wrapped his arms around her, running his fingers along her spine, hearing her moan._

 _"Frank," she whispered but it didn't sound like her voice. He ignored it and began kissing her breasts and her rhythm picked up. Fuck, she was so wet and he was holding on too hard but she would let him. He had wanted to take his time but this was good too; he had wanted to explore her body first, but fuck, if he was going to die today, at least he got to feel her just this once._

 _"Frank," her voice was harsher, louder and he grabbed her hips to steady her. He needed her to slow down but she wasn't and he was getting close._

 _"Karen," he whispered and she leaned back and he saw her face. Karen's eyes were bright and on fire, and her mouth was open; her moans coming faster now. "Fuck, Karen," he moaned trying to slow her down. She grabbed his left hand with hers and moved it down her body, to press it to her clit and he used his thumb, rubbing in circles._

 _"Oh god, Frank," she gasped and he rubbed faster, keeping the pressure she had shown him; once, twice, and she threw her head back, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders and her breasts. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen._

 _"Fuck, Karen," and he was so close and her hips were still moving and he kept rubbing his thumb just how she wanted, "Jesus Christ," she was so amazing. His orgasm hit him like a fucking punch to the face and his grip on her hip with his right hand became tighter, too tight, and he was sure he'd bruised her perfect skin._

When he came to, he wasn't on a bed but back in that chair with those plastic straps cutting into his wrists. Someone was wiping the blood off of his mouth. "Bill?" Bill was saying shit to him about how everyone was dead and it was his fault; telling him to give it up and let himself die; telling him to die _like a soldier_. "I'm ready, Bill," he whispered through the pain. "It's gotta be you." Bill was agreeing, saying he would make it quick.

They moved him to the computer, pointing out that they'd found the gun. They unhooked his right hand and he began typing in the sequence that Micro burned into his head. After he'd done it, they wheeled the chair back down and the beating started again; he vacantly heard Bill telling Rawlins that it was over, that he'd promised to kill him.

 _He was going in and out of shock; he was seeing Karen lying next to him. She was naked, running her fingers over his cheek and smiling; he'd never seen her so happy. But her expression changed and she asked, "Where's home, Frank? Is it there or is it here?" He knew what she was asking; he knew, she was asking if he could be in this moment with her and let go of the pain. Karen would never expect him to forget; he knew that. She was asking him if he could be with her and be content._

 _"It's here," he said pressing his open palm over her heart, "It's with you." She was crying and he could tell she wasn't sure if he was telling the truth. He kissed her lips and said, "I'm not going back. I'm gonna stay." He ran his hand over her face, his fingers traced the line of her brow, nose and over her lips. "With you." He kissed her forehead and she rested her face in his neck. He could feel her breath on him, the warmth of her body. "I love you, Karen."_

Then he was back and they'd rolled his chair back to the spot he was before and he knew the cameras were looking right at him. This time, however, the plastic restraints had his wrists tied around his back. Rawlins was beating him again; he took a good punch to his ribs and felt at least one of them crack. The one eyed piece of shit was talking at him but Frank wasn't hearing him; he wasn't aware of much. But he did become aware of Bill and Rawlins arguing; he knew that this was what he was waiting for. Rawlins was telling Billy about how little he mattered; "I pulled you out of the mud, gutter rat!"

It was in these moments that Frank realized something awful was happening. He was dying. He wasn't just in shock; no, his body was shutting down. He'd lost a lot of blood; he had internal bleeding; busted bones; and he'd gone in and out of consciousness multiple times. But what really made him realize that he was near his end… Maria was there with him.

 _He was still bloody, wearing the same clothes, but he was standing, looking at her and she was clean. She was telling him to "Choose."_

 _He knew exactly what she meant; his eyes moved over her face. "D-don't make me do that," he begged, his words broken._

 _"Come home, Frank," she said; her smile was bright as it had been on their wedding day._

Then Rawlins was standing away from him and Billy was between them; Frank couldn't hear what was being said but suddenly Bill was stalking toward him with a gun pointed at his head. He was standing behind the chair and Frank could feel the cold metal of the barrel at the base of his skull…but he also felt something else. Bill had some wire cutters on the plastic around his wrists behind his back, using the gun as a means of distracting Rawlins. But the gun moved away from his head and Billy was moving away.

Suddenly, Rawlins was in his face, telling him to "Stay with me, Frank. You're gonna want to be awake for this." And then the son of a bitch had stuck a needle in his leg and he felt like his heart was going to explode.

 _The adrenaline was keeping his heart beating but his body was still shutting down. Maria was holding her hand out to him and her smile was so beautiful, "Come home, Frank. Let's go home."_

Rawlins had grabbed a small knife from the table and he said, "Time for quid pro quo." And he was aiming the knife right at Frank's left eye.

 _He took her hand but when she began to pull him into the dark, he held fast to the spot he stood in. She turned to him, confused, hurt, and he said: "I am home."_

 _It's okay, Frank_.

"You're a dead man. Your heart just doesn't know it yet!" Rawlins took aim and the knife was coming for his eye, but Frank broke the binds and caught his arm; he reared his head back and slammed his forehead into Rawlins' nose and he flew backward. Frank stood up and the older man was looking at someone who was no longer Frank Castle. He was seeing The Punisher, covered in blood and so close to death that he wasn't even human. He jumped up and slashed the knife at him, but when it stabbed into Frank's side, he couldn't even feel it. Suddenly, the Punisher's hand had his throat and he'd kicked his legs out from under him; he pulled Rawlins' knife out of his side and was kneeling down. He never broke eye contact as he held the knife up. "You're wrong," he growled but Rawlins could barely understand the words; it wasn't a human who had him pinned. It wasn't a human who had stabbed him in the shoulder with his own knife. "I'm a reminder," he said.

And he was stabbing Rawlins in the neck over and over and over and Billy was watching, experiencing such euphoria at the image. Then the Punisher dropped the knife and was punching him, bare fisted, heavy punches that he shouldn't have been able to do in his state. The bones in Rawlins' skull gave way and it was becoming just mushy tissue that he was punching after a few blows but Rawlins was still alive and the Punisher wanted to tell him "Stay with me" but he remembered that Billy was watching. He looked up into the middle structure of the room where the computers were, to make sure that the younger man wasn't going to intervene. The look on Billy's face was like he was seeing his best friend take on the school bully and he was winning; he was _proud_. The Punisher looked back down at Rawlins and his one milky eye. _Quid pro quo_.

So he grabbed his face and turned it, making Rawlins look into the Punisher's eyes, then he used both thumbs and dug into his skull through those eye sockets. There was too much blockage in his airway for him to scream; all he did was continue drowning on his own blood. The horrible scream that sounded from the Punisher's mouth was so animal, so primal.

Then Rawlins' body stopped jerking and Frank fell over and laid next to the body. "God damn, Frankie," Billy said, "I love to watch you work."

But Frank was still dying and he knew it. "I wish – I wish I could see your face," he said around a mouthful of blood, simultaneously breathing that blood into his lungs and out of them.

"What are you talking about, Frankie?" Billy said, waltzing down to the scene below without a care in the world.

"When you realize," he went on, "that you're done. You've lost everything. Everything, everything you give a shit about is gone." He was laughing around the blood but the action hurt so much. "Gone," he repeated.

Billy was saying something but Frank couldn't hear it; then suddenly, agents stormed the place and Frank's eyes went dark. He could swear he heard David's voice, but he couldn't be sure. He was back in that darkness where he'd seen Maria but, this time, he was standing alone. He whispered her name but there was no answer.


	7. You Saved Me Too

_Author's Note: Hi! This chapter is HUGE and I'm really happy about it. So a lot happens here, but the most exciting part is that this is where s1 ends and the "after" starts. I like it very much and would love to hear your thoughts!_

* * *

 _If you take a step towards me_

 _You will take my breath away._

 _So I'll keep you close_

 _And keep my secret safe._

Frank became aware of himself when he was carried into a beige world; he heard voices and could understand that they were talking about him. Other languages, arguing; this definitely wasn't a hospital. He was struggling to breathe, like someone was sitting on his lungs; he felt a sharp pain in the right side of his chest but suddenly he could breathe again. Then he was out again.

 _Home is here. With you._

 _I am home._

 _Karen._

He woke up again; this time, his pain had decreased at least enough that he could move. Not get up, yet, but sit with his back to the wall and keep a watchful eye on everything. This room had big fucking windows and he didn't think he should stay here for long. When he got the all-clear from the doctor – who happened to be Dinah Madani's father – he got up, slowly, and they gave him clothes to wear. They told him they'd taken care of his things and he was sure ritzy folks like these people had lots of different ways to "take care of" things that they didn't want around. David and the doctor helped him get his clothes and boots on; David even tied his goddamn laces much to Frank's chagrin. Lastly, they gave him a hoodie and let him try to put it on himself, which he did _very painfully_. But he kept his pride.

"I got you a little something," David said, pressing an envelope into his hands.

Frank opened the lip of it and looked inside; his eyes widened at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. "Where'd you get this?"

"Well, same as everything," he said, referring to the passport and ID documents that were also in the envelope. There was also a flip phone, much like the one he had given Frank before.

"It's a lot of money right here." He counted five of those stacks; this was probably $250,000 he was holding.

"Yeah, well I stole it from bad buys, you know," Lieberman joked. "Learned that from you."

"You had access to money like this and you made us live in that shithole?" They both chuckled.

"Use it," David said and for what felt like the first time, Frank looked at him; he was tall and lean (probably lost quite a bit of weight over the last year), and his hair made him look like any other bum in the park. "Get out of the city," he continued. "Have a _life_." David looked like he might go in for a hug and Frank was trying to figure out how he could evade it without ripping some stitches. "You've done enough."

Frank backed up a little bit; Lieberman didn't notice it. He said, "I've got to finish this." The look on David's face was of resignation but he, too, took a step back.

Madani entered the room then and he said, "Madani, I appreciate everything you did here." She nodded her head and he went on. "I apologize if I caused you or your family any grief." She encouraged him to take what Lieberman gave him and disappear; she told him that if they met again, "all bets are off." He nodded his understanding but told her he'd see her around.

Frank appreciated her suggestion to leave and never return, but he had business to conclude. He would keep his word; _I'm going to watch you die_. The first thing he did was use the new phone Lieberman had given him to contacted Curtis; he told him everything. He felt bad for putting all this shit on him, but he knew that Bill would come after him. He knew Bill would try to lure Frank out by using Curtis. He knew it, because that's what Frank would do.

The plan worked well except Frank forgot about Bill's fucking ears; pretty boy dived out of the way right at the last second and got a shot off at Curtis, too. Frank called his phone and learned that Curt had been shot; he had to keep his cool though; had to get Bill out of there without risking Curtis' life.

"Put him on," Frank said.

After a moment of back and forth to ensure that Bill wasn't going to shoot him again, Curt slid the phone across the floor to the younger man. "Frank," he said, picking it up. "Shit, we know each other so well, we saw each other coming," he said, amusedly.

"Let's end this, Bill," Frank said. "No one else needs to get hurt."

"I will happily hurt everyone you ever gave a shit about until I get to you." The amused tone was completely missing from Bill's voice.

"You want me," Frank said, "come get me." There was no answer, so Frank went on. "I'm right here. Let him go, Bill; I'll let you walk out that door." No answer still. "I give you my word. That still means something."

Bill scoffed, "Now that's easy for you to say. You've got the higher ground and all the advantages. So maybe," he continued, "I just stay here…wait for Curt to bleed out."

Frank's blood boiled at his cowardice. "Then my next call is to Homeland." He wondered if Bill was weighing his options. "Come on, Bill. Let's just finish it, you and me. Any way you want."

"Alright," Bill said after a moment. "I'm going to trust you." Frank considered whether or not to just fucking shoot him when he got up, but Bill said: "As soon as I hear that magazine and cartridge eject from your rifle."

Frank held his sigh in and said, "Okay." He complied, making as much noise as he could while doing it. "You happy?"

Bill agreed and told Frank where to meet him to finish this. While Frank sat back and watched Curtis call an ambulance, he remembered the times he had invited Bill to the carousel with his family. He remembered how much they loved him; included him; and saw him as family. The images of his family dying there were sure to affect him while he tried to kill the younger man. That's what Bill was counting on.

One piece of Bill's plan was actually going to help Frank; it was dark and the Carousel, while still the same structurally, was muted in its colors. However, the advantage was lost when Bill turned the place on; the lights, sounds, music, and even the screams could be heard. Were they all in Frank's mind, or did Bill have someone in there? He used his scope to watch the ride go around in a circle and saw two people, it looked like teenagers, tied to the horses.

Then his phone started ringing. He knew it was Bill, calling to mess with his head more. Frank didn't reply to any of his statements; just let him keep talking. He knew he had to move in, so he used the explosives to distract the younger man, then he ran into the play area. But the other man saw him and got off a couple of good shots; one in the leg and one in the chest. He dove behind a sign for cover and used the strap from his rifle to tie off the wound on his leg.

The ride went around and around and Frank knew he had to get on it, but his leg slowed him down. He leapt and was on it, immediately holding up his rifle to be prepared to take a shot the moment it presented itself. But Bill was ruthless and called Frank out after a short time. He shouted, "Come out now or I shoot these kids!" He forced them to beg for Frank to save them and their screams became another distraction, another reminder.

Frank emerged and Bill told him to drop his gun and knife. The younger man approached him, spouting his self-righteous bullshit, shooting Frank right in the vest. He really believed that the younger man's next shot would be to his head, when goddamn Dinah Madani rounded the Carousel with her gun out but the kids begged her for help and Bill rounded, took the shot meant for Frank. She went down and he didn't have a chance to think about whether she was alive, he ran at Bill.

Their fight was vicious; fists, knives, and then shattered mirror pieces used to beat, slash, and finally to stab one another. Bill had him on the ground, about to stab him in the neck with his wrist-blade but Frank grabbed a piece of shattered glass and thrust it into his belly.

Bill knew he was done but kept fighting, trying to slash at the other man with desperation. Frank grabbed him and slammed him into the mirror. He held Bill's pretty face (now mangled with a bullet hole in the cheek) and pushed it into the cracked and shattered glass of the mirror, shredding his skin as he moved the younger man's head along the busted mirror and his screams echoed throughout Frank's mind, covering up the screams of his family; Bill's bloody face covered up the image of his daughter's face the day she died.

He pulled Bill's body back and gripped his hair, forcing him to look right at the face in the mirror. He pulled out his knife and held it to the younger man's throat. Bill's cracking and defeated voice sounded and he begged Frank, "Kill me." He said it over and over and the other man was _so tempted_.

But then he released the younger man's head and said, "I'm not going to let you die today."

Bill met his eyes in the reflection. "Please," he said.

Frank let him go, stepped back and said, "Dying's easy," and kicked the younger man into the glass. He grabbed his hair and pulled the barely conscious man back and said, "You're gonna learn about pain," _slam_ , "You're gonna learn about _loss_." He slammed Bill's face into the glass and said, "Every morning, I look for them, Bill. I look for them. But then I remember. But it's gonna be the same for you, when you look at your ugly, mangled face, you're gonna remember, Bill!" He slammed his face into the mirror; then he pulled it back once more. "You're gonna remember me!" And he thrust Bill's head into the busted glass and wall, and the let the younger man collapse, totally unconscious.

Like in a dream, the next few days passed. Madani lived and, as he learned, she bargained for his freedom. They told him, "Pete Castiglione is a free man." The same man informed him that Russo lived but it was still unknown if he would have any memory of the events that had transpired. But Frank had other things on his mind.

* * *

After all that had ended, after David Lieberman was reunited with his family; after William Rawlins lost his one good eye; after Curt's life was in danger for the second time in a week; and after Bill Russo lost most of his face, Frank Castle was dead once again. He hadn't heard Maria's voice since he had come back and stayed. He'd barely heard that voice since he saved Karen from that kid; when they stood together in that elevator and he had wanted so badly to kiss her, he had heard Maria's voice.

It was never Maria's voice, though; not really. Just like it wasn't really Maria asking him to die. Except it was; it had been all along. But now, he would have to learn to live his life without it…without her.

He started going to Curt's group every week; when he wasn't at group, he was reading the books Curt loaned him, one after another. He had been reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ for the last couple of weeks. David had helped him find a new place, one that wasn't such a shithole. This place had a bedroom, separate from the living room; it had an actual kitchen, too.

He had thought about going to see Karen at her apartment but something about it felt disrespectful. He had started to believe that he _could_ one day be ready; be a normal man who was interested in a woman. He thought that maybe, he could cook her dinner. Maybe even –

He felt the blush rise in his cheeks but it was not accompanied by the guilt he had felt before. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wondered if Karen would like it if he asked her on a date, or if she would laugh and remind him that they were so far past that already. He cut those thoughts off right there and returned his focus to the book. He was lying on a real bed in a real bedroom, in an apartment with painted walls and consistently running water. He hadn't had these things since he burned his own house down. These comforts were really distracting; he closed the book and shut the light off; the room was too quiet. He could hear the noise outside – horns honking, traffic sounds – but not his neighbors. He tried to focus on his breathing; tried to lay on his back, then his side; he tried to count goddamn sheep. He huffed in frustration and got out of bed, slipped his black t-shirt and dark jeans back on, grabbed his black hoodie, and headed out the door.

Even though his new place was in a different part of town, he found his way easily. He could get there sleep-walking. It was at the moment that he realized he was still holding the book. He considered going back but decided to just keep on. After a while, the buildings became more familiar until he saw hers. Initially, he headed for the adjacent building to go to the roof, but he just stood there, considering the options. She doesn't sleep any more than he does.

He approached the large double doors and buzzed her apartment number; it took barely fifteen seconds for her voice to come over the intercom. "Hello?" She said, sounding unsure but not as if she had been sleeping. He hesitated. He could go to the roof; just the wrong number or kids pranking.

But then he said, "It's me," and he heard nothing for nearly twenty seconds before the door buzzer sounded and he heard the lock click. He took the elevator and remembered when he'd been in one with her. He took a long, deep breath as the doors opened and he walked out, went left and arrived at her door within ten steps. He stood with his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest; he couldn't remember a time when he had been so nervous. He raised his hand and knocked twice.

Karen opened the door immediately as if she had been waiting right there for him to make it upstairs. Her eyes were full of tears; her long hair fell over her shoulders; she was wearing a white tank top and blue sleep pants. She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, wrapping her arms around his neck; he encircled his arms around her, holding her tightly, breathing her in. The door latched and they stayed there, swaying for what felt like hours.

Eventually she pulled away, grabbing his left wrist and pulling him; he remembered when she had done this in his dream and he shivered. She let go of him by her couch and walked into the kitchen; it felt like the last time he'd been here. He watched her pull two beers from the fridge and she was popping the caps off as he approached her. She spotted the book in his hand and held hers out for it; he complied and she held it up in the light. "Is this what you've been doing since…" she asked, trailing off as she read the back cover. He knew she had no intention of finishing that sentence.

"Yeah, my buddy Curtis has been loaning me some," he replied, taking a drag of the beer.

Karen met his eyes for a moment and smiled, handing the book back to him. She gestured to the couch and he followed her. He unzipped his hoodie and set the book and beer on her coffee table, then slipped it off. He folded it in half and set it on the back of the couch. She took a sip of her beer and asked, "What else have you been reading?"

He sat down and said, "Uh, _Moby Dick_ , _A Tale of Two Cities_ , and this."

Karen let out a breathy laugh and said, "Your friend must know you very well." He frowned a little in response and tilted his head. She laughed again and said, "Those books are all about revenge." He thought back and laughed too, nodding his agreement. "Next, he'll have you read _Hamlet_ or something."

He smiled and said, "What would you have me read?" His tone was light but there was something in his eye that she could see. Of course she saw it. Karen Page, nose for trouble.

She paused and got up, walking to a door and going through it. It was her bedroom and from his seat on the couch, he could see her sole bookshelf which was tucked against the wall by her bed. His eyes lingered on the bed for a fraction of a second longer than he intended; it was big with deep red covers and pillow cases, but white sheets. As she reentered the room, she shut the door behind her but not before she noticed where his eyes had been. She didn't say a word about it but she saw it; she knew. He hadn't even realized she had something in her hand until she was right in front of him. "Here," she said, holding out _The Princess Bride_.

He grabbed it from her as she crossed in front of him (which caused her to press her legs into his) and reclaimed her seat next to him. This time, however, she was sitting a bit closer. Not much, but enough that he felt her warmth spreading over him and those goddamn butterflies that had begun to settle were suddenly throwing a fucking rave. He had to bite his cheek and focus intently on his breathing to keep from groaning.

He held the book up and looked it over. "Isn't this a movie?" He asked; his voice was quieter than he intended; hoarse.

"That book is right up your alley," She said, gesturing toward _The Count_ which lay almost forgotten on the coffee table. "Kidnapping, torture, resurrection, heartbreak, true love, passion." The last words, she said quieter than the rest of them and then she grabbed her beer, somewhat suddenly, and took a long drink.

He watched her swallow and wondered if he was hearing her heartbeat or his own. He wondered if she had thought of him while she was alone. He cleared his throat and said "I should, uh, I should get going." His voice was barely above a whisper but she nodded. He stood up to leave and she got up too. He began moving around the couch, away from where she was standing, but he felt her hand grab his wrist. He stopped and turned around; when their eyes met, she dropped her hand back to her side.

 _She'll let me make the first move_. He knew she would. He gave her small smile; small but real and she visibly relaxed. He reached over and rubbed her arm, trying to be comforting but he felt a spark in that touch. He wanted to move forward to kiss her and he knew she could see it on his face; he saw her eyes flick back and forth between his eyes and lips.

But he let his hand drop like she did and walked to the door; she followed him. He was carrying both books but he knew for a fact that he wasn't going to finish _Monte Cristo_.

 _Love, passion…_ she had said in a whisper, as if she were telling him a secret in a code he would need to read the book to full understand. He wondered if she had meant the suggestion that had come across from that whisper; he wondered if the mention of those words was affecting her as much as it was him right then.

When he reached the door, he paused and turned to look at her. Her pupils were huge and her cheeks were flushed, but she was standing a little further away than she had been before; further away than she was on the couch. He held up the book she gave him and thanked her; she smiled and nodded but he saw something in that smile, a hint of something: regret, maybe, for saying those words. Maybe concern for having lent him a book that had to do with those things.

He lifted his empty hand and touched her cheek, running his thumb over her cheekbone and feeling the heat of her skin; he heard the sound of her breath hitching in her throat. She leaned into his hand, but only a little; just noticeably. He let his hand fall and said, "Goodnight." It was just a word but the tone he said it in sounded like a promise; an understanding.

Then he was out the door and down the hall, punching the elevator button with the hand that had touched her. He could still feel the heat if her skin and he never wanted it to go away. But as he walked in the chilly night air, the feeling dissolved from his skin, and he simultaneously realized that he'd left his hoodie in her apartment. His arms were like ice by the time he arrive at his apartment and he pulled the blanket off of his bed and wrapped it around himself. He left his clothes on and lay down on the bed and let his hand settle flat on his abdomen.

He was staring up at the ceiling but he was seeing something entirely different. He was seeing her. Karen Page. He couldn't feel the heat on his palm but he _remembered_ the feel of her skin. He could imagine how the rest of her body would feel against his calloused hands; his scarred body pressed against hers; his chapped lips opening, allowing him to taste her. She'd move her head, allowing him access to her sensitive skin. He'd undress her slowly, starting with her top; he'd kiss her belly, ribs, and her chest as he pulled it off. He'd avoid her breasts at first and slowly, her body would begin to shake with anticipation, much as his body was doing now. When he would finally let her come, her body would fall limp; he wouldn't stop at one, though.

He felt his hand moving to his belt of its own volition; he didn't care to stop it this time as he had the last time. He remembered the way her breath hitched when he'd touched her and he wanted to hear that sound over and over. He pulled himself out of his pants and shivered in the cool air; that sound was ricocheting around his head. He imagined that she would make that sound when he pulled her bra off and the cool air fell across her nipples; she'd make it when he used his lips on her, kissing all around each breast before licking her nipple with the tip of his tongue. She'd be so frustrated with his patience and slow touches, she would wrap her arm around him to hold him in place, control the motions. He'd pull away with a rueful smile on his lips and move down her body to begin unzipping that tight pencil skirt and sliding it down her hips. While he was down there, he'd bend down and lick from one hipbone to the other, his tongue pressing gently just above her panties.

His hand was moving in a steady rhythm over his length; he felt his body tightening up, preparing as he imagined making Karen come a second time as he circled his tongue around her clit. He imagined that sound she would make, remembered the sound she made in his dream, and his body jerked; he felt the wetness streak over his belly and chest as the ripples slowly faded. He wished he could feel her skin against his. He wished she were really here. But he was also glad that she wasn't; not yet.

He cleaned himself off in the shower and laid down in the bed, pulling out the book Karen gave him. Opening it felt like something bigger than just reading a book; it felt like an understanding. It felt like accepting a direction his life would inevitably take; a path that led directly back to her door. And it was a direction he wanted to go.

So he opened the book to the first page and lay back, settling in to read the book his girl lent him.

 _His girl_.

Karen fucking Page.


	8. Keep You Close

_Author's Note: Okay, so this was really difficult for me. Not that there should be concern for the characters! But this chapter was really difficult for me to get out. I've been stressed about a lot of stuff, so that doesn't help._

 _I hope you like it. I *may* rework the ending somewhat when I'm feeling better but I wanted to get this out. Please give me feedback on it. I feel like the ending is sort of blah. If you like it, let me know! Think it could be more...more? I'd like your opinions._

 _Please enjoy!_

* * *

 _If you cry out for more,_

 _If you reach out for me,_

 _I will run into the storm_

 _Just you keep you here with me._

He finished the book in three days; it only took that long because he couldn't extinguish the butterflies in his stomach and he couldn't stop thinking about her. The book was funny and he enjoyed the story, too. There was true love in it; there was also passion; but it was his own passion that had made it difficult to concentrate at times. He began to consider, once again, if Karen would want him to ask her on a date, or if she would be uncomfortable having dinner with him in some fancy restaurant. He knew that conversation wasn't his strong suit. He couldn't say that he'd said more than one-hundred words to her since he'd shown up on the street, asking for money.

But when he really thought about it, she hadn't said a hell of a lot either. Maybe neither of them would be good at that part of it. When he'd watched her at work, or at the bar, she'd held conversations with people and laughed at jokes; her body language had suggested she was having a good time.

Was it him? Was she unsure of how to have a normal conversation with him? He didn't make it easy, he knew that. He also knew that their conversations prior to and during his trial had been solution-focused; they were trying to uncover the conspiracy behind and win his case. Or at least to give him a shot. Then, when he'd returned, their talks had been about keeping her safe. In fact, he knew that all of their interactions previously had been working toward some goal.

Those goals weren't there anymore. Now, he just wanted _her_. She was the goal.

He was never good at the conversation part of relationships. He could communicate just fine when the issues were made plain. Maria would let things go for so longer that, by the time she was bringing them up, she'd be crying and frustrated with him and he could barely understand why. He didn't want this to go down like that.

But things with Karen were so different because she just understood him. A big reason why they didn't talk very much was because they didn't seem to need to. Often, he could just read her and he knew she was reading him. He had also learned quickly that he couldn't talk shit to her; she'd shut him down and he loved it. He loved it from the moment she shut him down in the prison, then stalked over and sat down in front of him like she wasn't sitting across from a prolific murderer. But she was always like that; she was always tough as shit. He loved that too.

He loved her.

He'd been holding on to the book for two more days after he'd finished it. He was nervous about taking it back to her. He was nervous, period. It was Saturday night around ten, in late February, and he had been putting off going to see her all day. He checked his clothes to make sure that he looked okay and looked at himself in the mirror. His bruises had faded but his wounds on his body were still healing. He wore a dark gray t-shirt and some blue jeans; he didn't have this hoodie but it was somewhat warm outside. He grabbed the book and left the apartment, knowing that if he didn't start walking, he never would.

The walk to her place was agonizing; not because of the still-healing knife wounds or from his bones that had been busted too many times; no it was agonizing because it took so long and he was practically jumping out of his skin. He was apprehensive about seeing the look in her eye when he gave her the book back; when she asked how he liked it.

He arrived at her building quickly; or it had taken him thirty-seven minutes exactly and he was so nervous, he felt like it was too fast. But who's counting?

He went to the door and rang her apartment. "Hello?" She asked but this time, she wasn't so unsure.

"It's me," he said, just like last time. However, unlike last time, there was no hesitation when she buzzed him in. Standing in the elevator was miserable for him; it seemed to be the longest elevator ride of his life, but when the doors finally opened, he wondered if he could stay on it longer. "Shit," he whispered to himself. "I'm a grown ass man. I've fought a war. I can _do this_." His words didn't have the intended effect and he was still standing in the elevator when the doors began to close. "Shit," he hissed as he jumped out and began walking to her door.

He didn't have to knock this time; she had opened the door before he could even raise his hand to do so. She looked…wow. Her hair was down and she was wearing a tight, blue dress with half-sleeves, and a pair of black heels; the dress stopped mid-thigh and he had to force his eyes to stop drifting over her smooth legs. "If you're on your way out, I can come back," he said, unsure.

She laughed and shook her head, "No, I did an interview over lunch and," she paused, looking away before finishing. "I thought you might come by."

He smiled and she moved to allow him to walk inside. He handed her the book as she walked past him, heading toward the kitchen. "What did you think?" She asked, her tone light but nervous. _At least it's not just me_ , he thought.

"I, uh, it was really good. Funny, too," he said. "I read it in three days," he said, standing behind the couch.

"What took you so long to return it?" She asked, teasing. She knew why. Of course she knew why. She stepped toward the kitchen and said, "Want a beer?"

"No thanks. I never seem the finish them when you offer," he said.

"You just need to stay longer," she said; her tone was simple, matter-of-fact, but the content of that sentence was not.

He felt the heat rising to his cheeks but he tried to take it in stride. "Yeah, okay. Sure, I'll have a beer." Was she opening it up for them to have a conversation? Had she been thinking that same things he was? He could almost believe it.

She went to the fridge and pulled two bottles out; as she popped the caps off, she asked, "What did you really think of the book?"

He smiled when she walked back over to him, handing him a bottle. He took a large swallow and said, "I liked it. The, uh, Spaniard was my favorite character."

She laughed and rolled her eyes, walking around the couch to take a seat. "Of course that character would appeal to you." She, too, took a big gulp of her drink.

"What can I say?" He chuckled.

She held his gaze for a moment without saying a word. He had taken the left-most spot on the couch and she was sitting at the other end, angling her body toward him with her legs folded under her. He imagined that would be more comfortable if she wasn't wearing that tight dress. They both took another drink of their beers, the silence suddenly feeling overwhelming. Frank looked at her and then to the spot in the middle of the couch, currently empty. He hesitated for a long moment before scooting several inches closer to her. She saw it; he wasn't a subtle man, but then again, he wasn't trying to be. No, at this moment, he _wanted_ her to see him. He was nervous to be even those few extra inches nearer to her, but she seemed quite calm. But when she lifted her own bottle to take another long drink, nearly emptying it, he saw the tremor in her hand; she was just as nervous as he was.

She set her beer on the coffee table and said, "I'm hungry. Would you like some takeout?"

He didn't have to think about his answer; he hadn't eaten much and when he did, it was still the same diet he'd been on before. He could cook for himself but it always felt strange to make a whole meal just for himself. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"I'm thinking Thai," she said, reaching over and grabbing her cell phone off of the table where it had been lying, forgotten and silent. She called the number of a place he assumed she called often and ordered a number of options for them to split. When she finished the call, she informed him it would arrive in twenty minutes, or so.

He gulped; he hadn't considered that he would have to hold a conversation for an extended period of time without some sort of distraction. He finished his beer in one gulp and she offered him another; he agreed, immediately, and she stood up. He looked up and watched her tip her head back to finish the last of her own and the smooth lines of her neck as she swallowed it down were incredibly distracting. He imagined he could follow the liquid down and let his eyes wander from her neck, to her clavicle, to her breasts, and down. He licked his lips, unconsciously, and turned away. He considered moving back to the left side of the couch. He considered moving closer to her. He considered leaving; making some excuse; and he considered staying indefinitely, letting her have everything he could give her and more.

She walked to the kitchen without noticing the look on his face and he was glad for that. She returned with two more bottles and said, "You're cleaning me out, Frank." Teasing; flirtation.

He chuckled and took the bottle as she sat back down. "I'll supply it next time," he said, almost without thinking.

He noticed the shift; one moment, she was smiling but then, her eyes changed somehow. She looked _elated_ and he couldn't help it, he felt it too; he felt proud for having made her feel that. Her voice even sounded happier when she said, "Alright, but it better be good; none of that cheap stuff." More teasing, but her expression didn't change and her eyes met his. It was then that ne noticed that the light in the living room was off and the only light was coming from the kitchen, shining on her left side as she sat with her legs tucked underneath her and her body angled toward him.

His voice was breathy when he replied, "Never." He knew exactly what had made her so happy; he knew it because he felt it too. Since they had first met, Frank was not a stationary fixture anywhere. In fact, he couldn't seem to stay in one place for more than a few months. The hospital, the prison, New York; he had left them all, and her, behind at one point or another. But this statement, this suggestion of a plan for a future meeting, meant that he was, at least, considering staying. But what she didn't know was that he never wanted to leave again; never wanted to leave _her_. He had his new goal in mind and he knew he would have to work on making her believe it, rebuilding the trust. _Because he slammed the door on her_.

He took a drink from his beer and the moment ended but he did not feel that it had been lost; he felt that it was set aside for further review in the future. She adjusted her legs, letting her feet fall to the floor. "You cold?" He asked and she nodded, still smiling. "Want a blanket?"

She smiled brightly again and said, "That sounds good."

She made a move to get up but he shook his head and stood. "Bedroom?" He asked, pointing to the door. She nodded and he made his way to the door, opened it, and was suddenly struck by the enormity of this moment. He had never been in a woman's bedroom since Maria. Standing in Karen's studio apartment months ago was different, since it was simply a single room – and there were bullets flying. But this, this marked a step for him that he knew he had to take. He breathed in, smelling something spicy, like cinnamon, and he stepped in the room. He found the light switch on the wall and the room was bathed in yellow-gold light; he walked in and saw that she had two small throw blankets on the foot of her bed.

 _Her bed_.

He shook himself and grabbed the closest one, turning to leave the room. He shut the light off and closed the door again; he could tell that she left the door closed for a reason and he wanted to respect that. He walked back over to the couch and said, "Can't have my -" he paused, shocked at the direction his statement had taken. She noticed it but tried not to let her expression betray it; but she knew. He tried again, "Can't have you getting a cold." His voice was a bit gruffer this time but he laid the blanket over her and sat back down on the couch, but this time, he chose to sit nearer to the middle. Her knees were pressed into his thigh and neither of them chose to move; in fact, Frank felt himself leaning into her.

"Frank," she began, but she didn't have a chance to finish because the door buzzer sounded and she stood, nervously. "That was fast," she said as she walked to the door, trying to keep her eyes facing forward. He heard her press the button and say, "Hello?"

The delivery driver said, in broken English, "Order for Karen Page?"

"Yes," she said and pressed the button to unlock the door.

Frank assumed she would stay at the door, like she seemed to when she knew he was coming, but this time she walked back and stood behind the couch. He turned his body, lifting his right leg on the couch, to see her; his right arm was resting on the back of the couch and she placed her hand next to him, as if to lean against it. Her eyes were suggesting something different, though, and Frank pulled his arm back to allow his own hand to settle near hers. He met her eyes before looking down to watch his middle finger brush the outside of her palm. At first, she began to lift her hand as if to take it away, but instead she moved it closer to him. His fingers moved over the outside of her hand, then over the back to wrap around it, lightly. She gripped his fingers inside her palm, gently at first; then her grip became stronger. He felt himself biting his lip as he watched their hands through the process, but he felt that she was watching his face intently. Watching for any sign that he wasn't ready, or felt overwhelmed by the contact.

No, he could honestly say that he was not overwhelmed. Her hand was so soft against his calloused and scarred one; it was warm and dry. He looked up at her face and saw something that nearly startled him, but then she pulled away and walked back to the door. He hadn't heard the knock because the blood was pounding in his ears; he realized then that his breathing was heavy and uneven, like he'd been running.

After a moment, she walked back into the room with a smile on her face, but he could see that she was blushing. "Hungry?" He nodded and stood up from the couch, grabbed their beers off of the coffee table, and walked around to meet her in the kitchen. She had pulled the cartons out of the brown paper bag and was grabbing plates from a cupboard. "I got pad Thai, yellow curry, and neow moo yang."

He had no idea what most of it was but it looked and smelled good, so he accepted a plate when she handed it to him and began spooning various foods onto his plate. She pulled the chair out on the side of the island in the kitchen, opposite her refrigerator, and she gestured for him to take the chair on the side by the living room. He did and they ate in silence for a while; mostly because he was really hungry and didn't want to eat with his mouth full. Karen was hungry as well, it turned out; every time he looked up, she was eating large mouthfuls and went back for seconds. So did he.

They finished their second beers and she offered him another; he wasn't sure what time it was but wasn't opposed to staying a while. He agreed and when she began to stand, he put his hand up. "Let me," he said and went to the fridge, pulling two more out and popping the caps off with the bottle opener that magnetically attached to the fridge. "This is really good," he said, gesturing toward the food.

"I love this place," she agreed, taking a drink of her beer. Something in her body language suggested to him that she was feeling the amount of alcohol they had had on empty stomachs.

"After this," he began, "I'll help clean up and then I should get going."

She hid the disappointment on her face but nodded, checking the time on her oven. "Okay."

He drank his beer slowly, trying to drag it out as long as he could. She began closing up the containers and he watched her as she walked, her gait was uneven but she didn't stumble. _Definitely feeling it_ , he thought, smiling. He grabbed their plates and she pointed under the sink so he could dumb the shish kabob sticks into the trash. He turned the water on in the sink and began washing the plates and the silverware. When he was done, he set it in the rack to dry and wiped his hands on a towel. He turned and she had put the cartons in the fridge and was waiting to throw the paper bag into the garbage. He stepped out of the way for her and grabbed his beer, finishing it.

She wiped her own hands on the towel and reached her right hand out to him. He took it with a smile and she led him to the door. "Do you want your hoodie?" She asked, but he shook his head. "I can grab it," she said but was silenced when he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him, resting his face in the crook of her neck. She wrapped her arms around his neck, breathing deeply. He wanted to linger but he knew he needed to go. This had been better than he had hoped. "When will I see you?" She asked; he could feel her breath on his neck when she spoke and he shivered. She felt it too.

He pulled back and reached for the door. "Miss me already?" He teased and she smiled. "I'd like to come by again. Do you have plans tomorrow?"

She shook her head, saying, "I have to talk to Ellison about the interview I did today but that's just a phone call." He thought she looked a little surprised that he wanted to come back so soon.

He nodded and said, "I'll bring the beer."


	9. Gravity of You

_Author's Note: Okay! All I have to say about this chapter is: I'm really excited. I had a totally different plan for it but I think this is great. But please let me know what you think!_

* * *

 _A new world is breaking_

 _Your heart is unveiling_

 _Breaking into pieces_

 _In the gravity of you._

Frank returned to his apartment and undressed, deciding it would be best to go lie down. He was fraught with a lot of emotions; his intense desire; his anxiety about the possibility of a relationship; and his fear that he may lose it all again. When he had returned home from Karen's, it was a little after one o'clock and, though he felt tired, he was also invigorated. They had touched before, yes; hugs were intimate and they'd had a few of those. But when he felt her hand grip his own, his body had felt electrified. The look on her face, the look that startled him, had been one of unhidden desire – her pupils were so dilated, he could barely see the blue; her cheeks were flushed, as was her neck and chest; and her lips were parted. He knew he wasn't ready for all of what that look entailed, but he was goddamn sure he wanted to try for _something_.

But this recognition brought on the feelings of loss; not guilt, but loss. After Maria, Frank never really believed he would "move on." He never saw that as a possibility and held on to the feeling that he was married. When he had been with Sarah Lieberman and she spoke of wanting _more_ , wanting to find love after the grief, he understood her perfectly. He had wanted that too; she mistook his desire for _more_ as a desire for _more with her_. She was a beautiful woman, but even if David Lieberman had been dead and not watching on his creepy spy cams, Frank never looked at Sarah like that. He couldn't move in and take someone's place; he couldn't be father to children that weren't his own. Besides, when she had described her own desire, he could not deny the image that came to him: a trouble-seeking blond with bright, blue eyes.

Now, he was lying in his bed and trying to summon the voice he had spurned so many times. He was trying to find Maria's words to tell him that it was okay to do this; it was okay to be with Karen. Ultimately, that was what held him back; he couldn't have jumped in the sack with her that night any more than he could have six months ago, he knew that. But he believed that, if he knew that Maria was _okay_ with this, he could be okay with it too.

But the voice did not come back. Maybe it had been Maria all along and now, now that she could see that he was going on the path she had pushed him on…maybe now she had done her work. Or maybe it had been his subconscious all along, telling him it was _okay_ to move on. Either way, the words were gone.

He began to consider how different Maria and Karen were. Maria hated confrontation and would often hold in her frustrations until it exploded and she could burn the house down, she'd be so mad. Frank would apologize and not ever fully understand what she had been so angry about, but it didn't matter; what mattered was he needed to fix it. But Karen, the first time they really met, she didn't let him get away with his brooding shit. She shoved the photo in his face and laid his ass out. Every time they met after that, he would say something to piss her off and she never let him get away with it. At first, he was shocked that anyone, let alone a skinny legal secretary, would talk to him that way. But then, he realized that he _liked_ it. Not in some bondage or perverted way; no, he had been impressed. He had known who she was, of course; known that he had shot at her in the hospital. But getting to know her, more and more, he realized he was getting attached. He had never really thought he had a "type" and this seemed to prove it; Maria could bring the pain, sure, but Karen wasn't _afraid_ to. It was instinctive to her and she would defend herself or those around her, even if it killed her.

A woman to match him. Maybe he had always wanted that and he unconsciously pushed Maria over and over to get that reaction, that anger. To see if she could go head-to-head with him. When he remembered the hospital, when Karen took that piece of shit, Grotto, and shoved them both into the line of fire to escape the hospital, he could not imagine Maria doing the same thing. Doing something so foolish and brave for someone she didn't know, he didn't think _most people_ would do that. But it made Karen stand out to him even when all he had was darkness and vengeance.

It made him _feel_ something and while it took a hell of a long time to allow himself to think it, let alone act on it, he had known it all along. It was in his bones now; she was.

Frank realized, then, just how long he had been lying to himself, how long he had been holding back from Karen. He knew he had fallen in love with her and he knew she cared for him, but he still held back. Much of the reason was his grief and loss, as well as his _need_ to protect her. But he also knew that there was more; beneath the rest, he was afraid.

What if she wouldn't have him? What if he reached out to hold her, kiss her, touch her, and she pulled away?

He went over their interactions in his mind; he remembered earlier when she had gripped his hand so tightly and let him see her desire; he remembered when he'd held her and felt her lips and breath against his neck. She knew how he felt; she _knew_. But he needed to tell her, too; he needed to tell her that he wasn't holding back anymore.

And he definitely could not sleep now.

He got up and pulled his jeans and t-shirt back on, the same ones he wore at her place nearly two hours earlier. He had his boots on and was out the door before he could think about what he was doing. He couldn't wait the length of time it would take to walk, so he hailed a cab – the sole cab that just happened to be available at 2 AM on a Saturday night. He gave the driver her address and sat back, his elbow on the arm rest, his hand rubbing the stubble on his face, watching the cars and people go by. The drive felt like it took almost as long as it would to walk, but he knew it hadn't. He gave the driver cash and got out, looking up at her window and seeing the blue light. He ran up the steps of the stoop and pressed the button for her apartment.

There was a moment of silence, before he heard her, "Hello?" She sounded hesitant and a little tired.

"It's me," he said, quickly, and heard the door unlock. He took the stairs, two at a time; he realized that her place was on the fourth floor but he kept running anyway. He exited the stairwell and saw her; she was standing in the hall with a concerned look on her face. "Are you okay?" She asked, her voice anxious. He walked over and, on the way, he realized that she had washed her makeup off and was wearing his hoodie over her black tank top and gray sleep shorts. He also noticed that her shorts were _short_.

 _My girl's shorts are so short._

The moment he got to her door, he pulled her into his arms and held her again. She was shocked, but responded quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his neck. He could feel her lips on the sensitive skin there. He lifted her off the ground, holding her tightly. She made a sound, a quick exhale, but it almost sounded like a moan.

"Frank?" She said, he tone questioning and with a hint of excitement.

He breathed in her smell. "Were you sleeping?" He knew she wasn't; he knew she didn't sleep much.

"No," she replied, "I'm doing a little work." He set her back down but didn't unwrap his arms yet. He felt her fingers slide over the back of his head and over his neck, while her other hand was between his shoulder blades. Everywhere she touched seemed to be sensitive. "Come on," she said, "Let's go inside."

He nodded and slowly relaxed his arms, feeling her fingers slide to the back of his neck, then around and over his clavicle. He shivered but she didn't say a word; she grabbed his left hand and he entwined their fingers; she pulled him inside.

"You left your sweater here again," she said, softly, but he could not have cared less; it looked so good on her. She sat down on the couch and pulled him. He hesitated for just a moment before taking the seat right next to her. She was sitting turned toward him, so he did the same, pressing their knees together; their hands were still clasped.

"Yeah, I meant to get it sooner but…" he trailed off and she just nodded. They sat in silence for a while and, although it was a comfortable atmosphere, Frank knew that they _needed_ to have a _conversation_. He needed to show her that he could engage with her on more than just investigations and crimes and violence.

He needed to show her that he could be goal-oriented for more than just punishing. He tried to open the conversation a few times, but each time he shut his mouth just as it was opening. She was watching him, he knew, but he was looking at their hands, rubbing his thumb over hers. "I…" he started, finally, but didn't know how to continue. Well, he _knew_ what he wanted to say; _I love you; I want you; I can't stop thinking about you; I'm in this with you_. But he didn't say those things yet. Instead, in a quiet, husky voice, he said, "Karen, I'm…not good."

At first she was silent and he began to worry that she was misunderstanding him, that she thought he was pushing her away all over again. "Frank -" she began but he shushed her.

"I'm not good. I don't know if I ever _was_ but…" he was staring so intently at their hands that they were going out of focus. "But, when I'm with you, I feel like it's okay." He felt her hand grip his more, tightly like she did earlier. "But, Karen, I'm…nervous."

She hesitated, wanting to make sure he was done. "Me too, Frank," she said, simply.

He met her eyes for a moment and then nodded, feeling his resolve grow. The look in her eyes was almost fearful. He worried that she believed he was ending it before it could even start; he saw that on her face. He took a deep breath and knew that she felt his hands shaking. "I know you know that I've been going through some shit but there ain't no excuses anymore, because," he paused again and took another breath, focusing on the feel of Karen's fingers, her skin. "I want this." He heard her exhale a breath he didn't realize she had been holding and he _knew_ she had been worried; she had been holding back too. "I don't want you to think that this is me using you, or some kind of rebound shit."

He raised his head and met her eyes; she was crying, tears falling from her eyes and her free hand was covering her mouth. His breathing started coming faster; he didn't know what to do, but he didn't need to. She wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him against her; he released her hand and wrapped both arms around her waist, pulling until she was sitting on his lap with both of her arms around his neck. He pressed his face into her neck and his mouth was pressed against her clavicle; under other circumstances, that fact would be exciting, but right now, he barely noticed.

"Frank," she whispered and all he could say was "I'm here, it's okay. I'm right here."


	10. I Don't Want to Let You Go

_Author's Note: Hi! I like this chapter but I also don't. I don't know. I did a little edit to improve it. I hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

 _Don't want your star-crossed fate_

 _You are the sun, I am the full moon_

 _Don't leave me, lost in vain._

 _I can be what you want._

Karen's sobs subsided but he felt her body relaxing and her breathing become deeper and more even. Instead of having her stand up and walk to the bedroom, he put his hands under her thighs and gripped her as he lifted them both off of the couch. Under different circumstances, this would be exciting. But it wasn't now. She made a small sound of shock, but continued resting her head on his shoulder, with her arms around him. He began walking to the bedroom door and realized that she had left it open; he smiled and walked right in, being careful not to bump her knees on the frame. He walked to the bed and set her down on the edge, toward the bottom, so he could turn the blankets down and help her crawl into it.

She laid her head on the pillow and said, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

He smiled and nodded, kissing her forehead. "Yeah, I'll be here."

She smiled and said, "Goodnight, Frank."

He made sure to turn the lamps off and shut her laptop before he let himself out. The walk back to his apartment was cold but he felt _so warm_. When he arrived at his apartment, it was 4AM and he felt into bed with his clothes on, and he was out.

He had dreams about being in that bed with Karen again. When he woke up, he looked at the clock on his bedside table and it read 9:36; he got up and hopped in the shower, deciding to cut time by brushing his teeth at the same time.

The air was cool and crisp, but the sun was shining brightly and he felt it heating his skin. He stopped at a bakery on the way; he bought two coffees, black, and a bunch of different pastries before continuing on his way. It was awkward to carry the two cups and the box while keeping everything steady. He felt the hot coffee hit his hand a couple of times, but it cooled quickly in the February air. He realized that the drinks might be cold by the time he arrived, but it didn't matter; the breakfast was only an excuse.

He arrived at Curtis' apartment building and buzzed the door. After nearly a minute, he heard a voice come over the speaker. "What?"

He laughed at the short greeting, knowing that the other man had been sleeping in. "Let me in, Curt," he said but there was no response. He finally finished, "I brought breakfast."

The door buzzed and unlocked.

Once inside Curt's apartment, Frank set the cups down on the counter and dropped the box of pastries. Curt was wearing a sleeveless black workout tee and a pair of grey sweatpants. His bruises had mostly healed; the gunshot would take a while; and the damage to his pride would suffer a lot longer. "Aww, Frank, I didn't know our relationship had moved past the friend stage," Curtis joked, grabbing a cup. "It's black, right?"

"Yeah, you know how I take it." Frank said in response, looking around the room.

"Yeah everyone knows you take your coffee dark and bitter like your soul," he joked, grabbing the cream from the fridge.

"Ruin a perfectly good cup of coffee," Frank said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, yeah," Curt said, sarcastically, pouring some into the cup and then putting it back in the fridge. "You walked, I see," he said after taking a sip.

"Is it cold?" Frank asked and Curt shook his head, taking another drink. Frank nodded and did the same thing, before opening the box and grabbing a small cinnamon roll. The other man looked over the contents and smiled, grabbing a scone of some kind. "How you been?" Frank asked, taking a bite.

Curt nodded, dunking the scone in his coffee and saying, "Not too bad. I've been a little worried, though."

"About what?"

"My leg, man," Curt started, looking concerned; "I can't feel it anymore." Frank's eyes went wide and then the other man burst into laughter. "I'm fine, Frank."

"You son of a bitch," he said, laughing too.

They drank their coffee and ate from the box without caring for plates or forks; Frank listened to Curt as he talked and didn't offer many comments. After a while, though, the other man said, "Okay, Frank, what are you doing here?"

Initially, his instinct was to make something up about just checking in after he got shot, but Curt would know he was lying. He didn't know exactly what his hesitation was about; his friend knew about Karen and had known for a long time. But there was a difference between _suspecting_ that something was going on and _knowing_. Frank had always been a private person; he didn't want to share his business with anyone, even his friends. But maybe that was something he could set aside because he wanted this and he wanted Curt to know.

"I'm um… me and Karen…we are…" He spluttered through, trying to make a sentence, but with every hesitation, Curt's smile just widened.

"I knew it, man," he said. "I'm happy for you."

Frank was looking down at his empty coffee cup and sticky hands, considering standing to take it to the trash and washing up. But he felt heavy all of a sudden; heavy with something painful, like a punch to the gut. "I was dying, you know," he said, suddenly. "A few days before Bill showed up here, I know I was dead." Curt's eyes were on him with a cautious expression; he stayed silent though. "I saw Maria, man. I saw her as clear as I see you." He could feel the burn in his eyes from the tears that were unshed. He hadn't thought about this since he had woken up in Dinah Madani's bedroom. "She was holding her hand out, asking me to die." Frank held up his right hand, as if his wife was standing in front of him again. "But I didn't, Curt. I _chose_ not to. Since that day in the park, I have _wanted_ to be with them again. I'd never do it myself; I always imagined that, eventually, someone would get me before I got him. After all the shit I've _lived_ through, I kept thinking that after I put them down, I could go." Frank breathed in a shaky breath and dropped his hand back down.

"But then I _was going_ and all I was seeing, all I was imagining, was Karen." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, quickly, ignoring that it didn't help. "And when Maria asked me to die, when I had the chance to be with them again, Curt, I didn't take it." He laughed, a breathy but nearly hysterical sound as he considered how strange this was. His friend continued to look at him with the same expression, but he could see that Curt's eyes were reddening from his own emotion. "I came back and I stayed." Curt reached his own sticky hand out and grabbed Frank's shoulder, trying to comfort him but knowing that there was nothing that could ease this pain. "What do I do with that?" His voice felt hoarse from keeping the raw emotion in check, from not letting himself break down.

"What the hell do I do now? Just _move on_ with Karen?" Curt's grip was shaky from his own tears and he grabbed Frank to pull him into a hug. As close as they had been for the past several years, they had never _hugged_. Some half-hugs at greetings; some slaps to ass with a 'Good job!'; even when Frank came to him, after his family was dead and everyone thought that he, himself, was dead, Curtis didn't hug him.

"You _live_ , Frank," he replied. "You live for them and for yourself. But you can't continue to go on as you have been, man. They wouldn't want that for you."

The hug ended after a few minutes and Frank stepped away to wash his hands to try to use some napkins to wipe the sticky frosting off of his shoulder. He picked up the trash from their breakfast and threw it in the can under the sink. Curt made them both some more coffee and Frank was glad he kept his paper cup. He excused himself to the bathroom and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. As he washed his hands, he used some toilet paper to wipe his face off and returned to the living room. Curt was holding a book and handed it over to Frank; it was titled _The Old Man and the Sea_ , and he recognized the author from another book he had seen Curt reading.

"What's this?"

"Some of the other guys suggested it to me. I enjoyed it."

Frank nodded and said, "Alright. Thanks." Curt didn't say anything more and he knew Frank didn't need to hear him say a word to know what he thought.

He walked back home with the book and his coffee cup, amazed at how warm it had become. The sun was higher in the sky and the temperature must have been around forty degrees. During the walk, his thoughts wandered to the memory of his death; he didn't know if it was real or a hallucination, but it felt real. He remembered it vividly; he remembered putting his hand over Karen's heart and telling her that he belonged with her. He remembered letting Maria go in the dark; when he returned there after he had killed Rawlins, she was no longer waiting for him. The only thing he could think of was that he needed to come back again and he did.

 _Where's home, Frank?_

 _It's here. It's with you. I'm gonna stay. With you._

Curt was right; he needed to _live_ now. He knew that, even if Maria was hurt that he had chosen to live, she would not want him to throw this away. He had many close calls since he woke from his coma; there were any number of hits he could have taken that could have been his end. Yet, he made it all the way, all the way to Rawlins and Russo; he finished it. But he didn't want to be done; he _wanted_ to have something more. He knew that Karen couldn't be his everything; she couldn't 'fix' him, but she could make the future into something he wanted instead of something that he avoided. She already had, in some ways. He was going to her place tonight and he was _happy_ ; they had made plans and he intended to make more and more until it no longer felt alien to him.

He had made plans since waking up; oh yes he had. He'd made plans to stalk and torture, terrify and murder and he didn't feel guilty for what he had done. He knew that the scum that he put down deserved it; every one. But he could consider a life where he didn't do that anymore. Didn't _need_ it anymore. Karen would inevitably get herself into some shit and he would always be there to get her out.

 _Where's home, Frank?_

"It's you," he whispered.


	11. Bring the Broken Back to Life

_Author's Note: Okay, I've been struggling a lot but I think this should make a lot of you happy! Please give me feedback. It helps to know if I'm going in the right direction. :)_

* * *

 _Take the color from your eyes_

 _I bleed for you, I bleed for you_

 _Bring the broken back to life_

 _We'll make it through, we'll make it through._

Frank arrived at his apartment around eleven-thirty and fixed himself some lunch and ate it while reading that day's copy of _The Daily Bulletin_. He saw Karen's name and read over the article; it was about a partner in a law firm bringing suit alleging sexual harassment and Karen's interview with her detailed the death threats she was receiving from the senior partners. It explained that, due to the nature of the threats, she was forced to go public. Karen requested interviews with the harassers and they had denied everything, even when she showed them the printed emails and played their own voicemails. _Fuck_ , she was a piece of work.

A woman to match him.

She was relentless; every response they gave had ten follow up questions and he remembered being on the other end of that. Such a skinny, beautiful woman made her easy to underestimate – at one's own risk. He had made that mistake once; in the hospital, he had barely acknowledged her until she was in his face. To be fair, Frank was distracted by meeting the Devil of Hell's Kitchen in the light of day, but this time, in the guise of some well-meaning, blind lawyer. He had barely noticed the other lawyer but Nelson stepped up at the trial and even though he threw the whole thing, he appreciated the work they did.

When he finished his food, he put the paper aside and washed his dishes, putting them in the rack. Doing so reminded him of the night before when he had washed the dishes from his meal with Karen. He was brought back to the things he had said to her; the things he had wanted to say but didn't get the chance.

 _I'm not good._

 _You make it feel okay._

 _I want this._

 _This is real._

 _I love you._

The only thing that held him back from finishing was that he realized, as he had previously, that he didn't need to. She knew. She always knew. She hadn't really believed he would ever act on it; their interactions before had been intimate, somewhat sexual even, but he had held the line. Every time. Last night, he had maintained his position on this side of the line, he knew that, but he was closer than ever to taking that step. And he _wanted_ to.

He took another shower at about five and left the house, walking at a brisk pace. He stopped at a street vendor and bought a bouquet of daisies, carnations, and lavender. He arrived at her building and then walked past it; he walked to the next street and then down the other. He was trying to shake off the anxiety but each step that he took, each step that got him closer to her door, increased his heartrate like he was running a marathon.

He approached her door and walked past it a second time; however, he didn't make it to the next street. He heard something; a beautiful sound the stopped him in his tracks. Karen, laughing. He turned and looked up at her window and she was there, watching him. He looked away, sheepishly, and then laughed as well. She was watching him still; he could tell that she was wondering if he was going to come up this time. He looked around the street for a moment before holding up the flowers to her; her smiled widened and she held her hand up, crooking her finger. He nodded and walked toward the double doors. She had already unlocked the door when he reached them so he stepped right inside.

She was in the hall when the elevator doors opened, leaning against the doorframe. She was wearing a navy blue flowery, button down dress and black flats; the dress stopped a few inches above her thigh. Her hair was loose, as usual, with a hint of a curl in the front. He tried not to stare are those legs; he tried to hide his smile at the joy on her face, but he couldn't. When he reached her, he pulled her into his arms and held her.

"Hi," she whispered; he felt her breath on his neck.

"Hey," he said, breathing in the smell of her shampoo or perfume or whatever it was that smelled so good.

He pulled back and handed her the flowers; she smelled them, happily, and took his hand to pull him inside. He was still so nervous but she seemed clam, collected. "I love daisies," she said, walking into the kitchen and dipping to pull a clear, glass vase out of a cupboard. She unwrapped the bouquet and filled the vessel with water, then placed the flowers inside. She left it set on the counter and turned around, looking at him.

He walked into the kitchen with her. Her kitchen was small with an island in the center; he was standing between it and the fridge. On the other side of the island was the chair that she sat at when they'd eaten together. Its placement meant that, if she wanted to leave the area, she had to either rearrange her furniture or walk past him. This was a bold move, he knew, but he was ready to be a little bold. She was watching him and there was something different about the look; something determined, he thought. "I was thinking," he said, taking another step. "I wanted to ask you if you would like to have dinner." Another step. "At my place." Step. "I'll cook." Step.

Now he was standing within a foot of her and he could see how fast she was breathing, how her hands were shaking; how she licked her lips. He realized that she was _not_ intending to push the chair to evade him. "I would love that," she said in a whisper.

"I would too," he said and he placed his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, bringing their faces mere inches apart. Her blue eyes were so bright even though the pupils were dilated and the shaking in her hands had spread to her shoulders. She was trying to control it. He wished she wouldn't.

He breathed in and leaned those last few inches and pressed a kiss to her face right beside her mouth, on the left side. He could feel her breath on his cheek and he maintained eye contact. He pulled back but only an inch or two and realized she wasn't stopping the shivers from running over her anymore. Her breath was coming in fast and wild and she was gripping the counter top. He felt a sharp concern that he was pushing her, that she wasn't ready for this bold step, even though he was. He needed to backpedal.

She saw the change in his face, the concern, and reached up, putting her hands on either side of his face, she pulled him back. But she stopped when he was nearly touching her lips. _She'll let me take my time_. He could feel her hands shaking and her eyes were wildly moving over his face, but pausing to stare at his lips every few seconds.

Then they were kissing and her lips were so soft and tasted sweet because of her lip gloss. He felt her fingers tensing around his neck before traveling down, slipping inside the collar of his shirt, pressing into his _skin_ and he was on fire. She opened her mouth and slid his tongue against hers and then he turned his head to make it deeper; and her fingernails were digging into the skin under his collar. His right hand moved from her waist over her back and into her hair; he felt her skin burning through her clothes. Her breathing was harsh and his own was ragged; every time her tongue slid against his own, he felt sparks and he knew he was kissing her too hard, too _passionately_ , and he was forgetting to intake breaths. He began to feel like he was back at Madani's and his lung was collapsing.

He pulled away, hesitantly, and let his forehead rest against hers; the air rushed into his lungs and he heard her do the same thing. He opened his eyes and met hers; he imagined that his face looked like hers: flushed, her eyes dilated, and her lips swollen. "Karen," he whispered for lack of anything else to say. Their breathing matched in its intensity. She kept her hands on his neck and shoulder beneath the collar of his shirt, rubbing lazy but determined circles into his skin. His left hand rested on her waist, while his other hand was on the counter, to keep his balance.

"Been wanting to do that for so long," he whispered with a smile on his face.

She was smiling too, as she said, "Me, too, Frank."

He closed his eyes and sighed, contentedly. "I'm not… I'm not holding back anymore."

She looked over his face, considering the determination she saw there; the honesty in his words. She nodded, content to stand in the dying light of late winter shining through her window, with the mass murderer who loved her.

"You know, I…" she whispered, meeting his eyes. She hesitated to finish the thought, but he knew what she was going to say; he knew she was trying to tell him she would _wait_. She would let him come to terms with them, with her, at his own pace.

 _She'll let me take my time_.

"I know," he said; his voice was gruff from the heady emotions coursing through him. "I always knew."

She nodded, their eyes locked on one another's. "I… I want this too," she said, surprising him. "I never got to say it."

His eyes fell shut and he breathed deeply; he adjusted their position so he could rest his face in the crook of her neck. This position pressed his erection into her thigh but she didn't say a word. The feel of her thigh, soft and supple against him; he remembered those shorts she had been wearing the night before, when he had returned to see her. "You can't wear those shorts anymore," he whispered.

"Why not?" She asked, amused; he felt her breath ghost over his ear and shivered.

"With _those_ legs?" He said, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Not a bit fair." She laughed, breathily, and made some joke about wearing them more.

Then he made a sound in his throat and they were kissing again. This time, it wasn't soft or gentle and she wasted no time in catching up to his rhythm. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush with his body just as she circled her arms around his neck. He groaned before he could stop himself but when it was out, she _moaned_ into his mouth. He ran his hands up and down her back, settling his right hand just above her ass and his left hand on the back of her neck. Her lips were so soft against his and he never wanted to stop feeling them.

Then he heard something vibrating loudly and he started to come back to himself. But she wasn't letting go and her mouth stayed where it was, pressed against his. He opened his mouth and felt her tongue slide between his lips, and he groaned again, pressing her back against the counter and sliding both of his hands down to rest above her ass. He didn't know when the vibrations had stopped but he sure as hell knew when it started again.

He heard her sigh and felt as her hands slid back to press against his chest, lightly. "Sorry," she whispered between slower pecks on his lips. "I pitched this story to my boss and he said he would call me about it."

He nodded, but kept kissing her until she realized that she would have to end it decisively if she was going to get to her phone. She pulled back and pressed her palms, pointedly, against his diaphragm. "Okay," he whispered, pulling back and immediately biting his bottom lip, tasting the lip gloss.

"Okay," she said back and slid between him and the counter, which was still had her pressed against him, though not as tightly. She hurried over to the coffee table and picked up the cell phone. "Karen Page," she said and then began a somewhat heated dialogue with someone Frank assumed was her boss.

He was glad that her back was to him as he adjusted his pants to try to conceal his erection, though she had to have felt is pressed against her when he was pinning her to the counter with his own body. He turned around and watched her; she was looking at him too and, while she was answering the person on the line, her eyes were glazed, somewhat and her expression was kind of dazed. Every few seconds, he watched her pinky finger move from the phone to run over her bottom lip and he knew she was thinking about him.

The call took a while and just when Frank was moving toward the door to exit and give her space, she quickly said, "Okay, Ellison, gotta go!"

He turned and watched as she dropped the cell on the sofa with a _plop_ and their eyes met. He cursed under his breath but he wasn't sure what he had said, honestly. She walked over and grabbed his hand – not his wrist – and pulled him to the couch while intertwining their fingers. "Do you want to come to my place tonight?" He asked, looking at their hands.

"How about now?" She said, her voice breathy. "I could go for an early dinner."


	12. Take My Hand

_Author's Note: Hi all! You are so lucky! I hit a spree of sexy inspiration and you get the benefits. ;)_

 _I am so happy to see all of the love this story has been getting. It feels so good. You help me stay inspired! Keep letting me know what you think._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _I won't turn my back on you_

 _Take my hand, drag me down_

 _If you fall, then I will too_

 _And I can't save what's left of you_

Karen was standing at the counter in his kitchen, watching Frank move all around; she took a drink of her beer. On the way over, they had stopped at the 24-hour store he usually shopped at and purchased a six-pack of the kind she preferred. Right then, he was chopping mushrooms and there was a pot on the stove with water beginning to boil. She had offered to help but he shook his head, smiling, and said "I got it." His voice was still shy, even after that kiss; maybe more so now.

Once he had finished with the mushrooms, he swept them off the cutting board into a pan on the stove; the burner wasn't on yet. He began chopping the onion, quickly; Karen could see his eyes redden from the chemical being released. He was looking up at the window near the kitchen and she took the hint, walking over to it and pushing it open; while she did that, he finished cutting them and turned the fan above the stove on. He swept the onion into the pan with the mushrooms, then turned back to the counter and peeled the layers off of the garlic and began crushing it with the side of the blade. When that was done, he added butter and turned the burner on, and then he added the thick noodles to the boiling water.

He began slicing the beef into cubes and added it also. The air inside began to cool with the window open, but Karen didn't seem to notice, even though her dress was short with no sleeves. Frank took a drink from his beer; their eyes met several times while he was doing the prep work for dinner, but she didn't feel the need to fill the silence. He felt his face flush when he saw her leaning back against the counter, as he remembered _pressing her against the one at her place_ ; he took another drink.

"It'll be done soon," he said, trying to ignore the quiver in his voice.

She smiled and took another drink of hers. "It smells really good. I can't remember the last time I had stroganoff."

He blushed a little, smiling; _shy, nervous_. "Thanks," he said. While the sauce thickened, he strained the noodles and added them to the pan, stirring to coat them.

"Let me grab plates," Karen said, suddenly, walking over to where he stood. He nodded but didn't speak; being even two feet from her made his heart pound, so he pointed to the cupboard behind him, opposite her. She walked past him and opened the top, reaching up to pull two plates out. Frank watched the entire time, his eyes moving up and down her body. After she set them on the counter, she began opening drawers and finally located the silverware, pulling out two forks. She turned around and caught his eyes; he looked away for a moment, to pretend he hadn't been staring. When he met her eyes again, he knew that she knew; he bit his lip and began stirring the food again.

She brought the plates over to him and he felt her _accidentally_ press her hip into his as she held a plate for him to scoop some stroganoff onto. His hand shook a bit as he held up the ladle but he didn't make a mess. She licked her lips as he held up the second spoonful for the other plate and the implement nearly fell out of his hands.

"Oh, it's okay," she whispered, touching some of the drops that splattered on her arm with her pointer finger, and then pressing it between her lips.

"Shit," he whispered, then covered it up by grabbing a paper towel; "I'm sorry. Let me." He used the towel to wipe the drops off of her forearm; luckily it did not get on her dress or his shirt.

She was smiling but there was something in her eyes that made him shiver, made him… breathe faster. She took both plates and walked them to his table and he grabbed their beers and followed her. "I'm in trouble," he whispered and she either didn't hear him or just didn't respond. He sat down at the table and watched her take her first bite; she made an "Mmmm" sound and nodded, grabbing more with her fork. He smiled, a bit relieved, and took another bite. Frank was knocked from his reverie when she looked up at him; he shook himself and began eating as well. He took another drink, finishing his beer, and asked if she wanted another. She nodded, taking another bite; _fuck_ , even watching her eat was turning him on.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered to himself as he walked to the fridge. He grabbed two out and used the counter top to pop them open before returning to the table.

She finished her plate and he offered to get her more, but she shook her head. "No, I'm full," and stood up.

"I can do the dishes," he protested, standing up.

"No, no," she said, putting her hand firmly on his shoulder and pushing him back into his seat. "Finish your dinner. Besides, you did the dishes last night."

"Yeah, but," he said, gesturing toward the pot and pan, as well as the utensils.

"I got it," she said, smiling at him.

He sighed and relaxed in his seat, finishing his food. She was running the water in the sink and she emptied the pan of stroganoff into a plastic container that was in the dish rack; then she put the pan under the water and began scrubbing. He only had a couple of more bites to go, so he ate quickly and hurried over. She grabbed his plate before he could protest further and plunged it into the water. He stood there, watching her; he couldn't explain what, but something about the way her hand dipped into the water and ran the cloth over the dishes, with the steam rising and causing a sheen of moisture to attach to her skin…

He shook himself and used a moist cleansing wipe to clean off the counter top and cupboards, the table, and the chairs, and then he wiped down the stove. He tossed the dirty wipe into his trash can and turned around; she was finishing up the pot that he had boiled the noodles in and he walked over. When she was turning to set the pot on the counter, he was standing behind her, pressed against her back, and he took it from her hand; he could hear her breath hitch. He set it down and used his dry hand to move the hair away from the right side of her neck; she turned her head just slightly to look at him as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her shoulder. She bit her lip and when he looked down, over her shoulder, every heavy breath she released opened the top of her dress; he could see the lace of her bra.

He stepped back and she turned around; her pupils were dilated and her lip looked swollen from when she had been biting it. He moaned, quietly, and took a step forward, taking her cheek in his left hand and turning her head to kiss her. She grabbed the front of his shirt, then slid her hands down, over his abdomen and gripped the fabric of his button up just above his jeans. He was kissing her so fast but, this time, he was focusing a least a teeny part of his brain on breathing; he wouldn't stop so easily this time. He moved away from her lips and kissed down her jaw, to her neck, then down to her shoulder. From here, he couldn't see her bra anymore, but he _remembered_. His hands were on her waist and he gripped there and lifted her, stepping two feet to the right, and set her on the counter top. She opened her legs and moved her fingers over his scalp, bringing his mouth back to hers.

"Frank," she gasped as he pulled her to the edge of the counter. He moved down to her shoulder again and she let her head fall back against the cupboard behind her. She was moaning so beautifully as he used his teeth and tongue on her clavicle. Her legs lifted, slightly, and she linked her ankles behind him. He used his right hand to pull her dress aside, slightly, to kiss along her shoulder and he felt her hips move against him. He gasped and moved his own. "Frank," she gasped, louder, dragging her nails over his neck.

He knew this time, there would be no phone to distract them but something gnawed at his brain. They'd been through a hell of a lot together, but this was new; he'd only just accepted that he could do this _yesterday_. He wanted to, _fuck, did he want to_ , but he knew he wanted to slow down a bit.

She didn't seem to mind, though, and her fingers were doing that amazing thing inside the collar of his shirt again. But she seemed to sense his hesitation, because she removed her hands from him and she leaned back. He looked away from her, knowing she felt disappointed; knowing that he was a huge goddamn tease to get her all worked up and lose his fucking nerve over and over. "Karen, I…" he began but she shushed him.

"It's okay, Frank." She said, simply, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his neck. "It would be okay if we never – "

"Fuck no, it wouldn't," he interrupted. She laughed out loud, sitting back and covering her mouth to contain the sound. He smiled and looked away, a bit shocked at his outburst, but also blushing at the realization that she was still pressed against his erection. He could feel the heat of her on him and he groaned, letting his forehead rest against her chest. She rubbed his scalp and planted a kiss on top of his head. "God, I've wanted you… for a long fucking time. Wanted _this_." He heard her breath hitch; that sound he loved so much. "I can… feel you," he whispered, unconsciously pressing against her harder.

"I can feel you, too," she breathed, and it was just then that he noticed his hands weren't on her waist anymore…they were over her ribs, inching up toward her breasts. If he didn't stop now, he wouldn't.

But did he _need_ to? He considered for a moment, thinking that he could run his hands up her thighs and this dress would bunch up, just perfectly. He could kneel down and feel her thighs wrap around his head; he would taste her through her panties at first, but when she was shaking and, maybe, begging, he'd slip them off.

"Frank," she gasped and he realized he was pressing against her, over and over, and she was rocking her hips. The sounds she was making, the way her eyes were fluttering, her pallor.

"Karen?" He asked, steadying himself; she relaxed her legs, nodding; she thought he was done with her. He grabbed her thighs and lifted her, again, wrapping her legs around his hips and walking them; she was shocked at first, but then she started kissing him. "No fair. Slow down," he moaned against her lips, "my hands are full."

She undid the top three buttons of his shirt, sliding her hands inside and feeling more of his skin than she had before. He moaned into her mouth and sat them down on the couch; she immediately adjusted her legs to accommodate the position. She unbuttoned some more and began exploring his chest and over his abdomen, but he grabbed her hands and she pulled back, concerned that she had completely misunderstood his meaning. He kissed each of her finger tips, lingering and meeting her eyes; her mouth fell open as she watched his mouth. When he had done that, he gripped her hips and lifted her, moving her to lie back on the couch and he kneeled between her legs.

"Frank..?" she said, questioning.

He moved up her body and kissed her, both of his hands in her hair as he leaned against her to lie them down. "I want to, Karen," he growled. "But…" he trailed off, kissing her down her neck, across her clavicle, and then, he slid his hands down her neck to the buttons of her dress.

"Then, why..?" she whispered, watching his hands opening her dress. She was confused but not trying to stop him.

"I want to do this," he said, kissing her chest as he exposed it. The lace of her bra was hinted at when he undid a button, but she stopped him.

"No, Frank," she breathed, taking his hands in her own. "I'm okay with waiting." He just stared at their hands; she entwined their fingers together and brought his hands up to kiss them. He _knew_ this wasn't a rejection; he knew that, if anything, _she_ should be the one feeling this way. He nodded his head and began buttoning her dress back up.

"I'm sorry," he whispered; he imagined how disappointed she must have felt. He imagined that he really fucked this up. "Karen, I'm sorry."

She shook her head, smiling, "It's okay, Frank." He looked down and then began buttoning his shirt back up. "Let me do that," she said, sitting up and taking hold of the task.

He could only describe this feeling as shame; he'd _disappointed_ her. He'd initiated it and then fucked it up. The look on his face must have clued Karen in to his thoughts at that moment, because she adjusted her legs to kneel in front of him and took his face in her hands. "Frank, it's okay. I wanted to slow down a bit, honestly." He met her eyes and searched them, looking to be reassured. He nodded his head and kissed her, first on the lips, then on the nose; she smiled.

She excused herself to the bathroom and he finished buttoning his shirt, then adjusted himself in his pants. With the heightened emotions he had been feeling, he'd mostly lost his erection. Mostly. He checked the time, _8:15_ , and he knew it was time to take her home. When she came out, she had fixed her makeup and her hair; he smiled at her and held out his hand. She grabbed her purse and they left his apartment, walking back to hers.

"I can walk myself," she said when they reached the street.

"I want to walk with you," he replied and she smiled, brighter.

When they reached her building, he knew she would offer him upstairs and he knew he would stay; all the good intentions and patience he had could only hold out for so long. He kissed her, a lingering peck on the lips, and said "Goodnight, Karen."

"Goodnight, Frank," she said and turned to go inside.

As he walked away, she heard him say, "I'm in _so much_ trouble."


	13. Relent or Resist

_Author's Note: Hi! This chapter is important for a lot of reasons and I hope you all enjoy it! I did some work to it today (12/6/17) to add more content and make it flow better. I hope._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _You're the pulse in my veins_

 _You're the war that I wage_

 _Can you change me_

 _From the monster you made me?_

The next week went by quickly; Frank would meet Karen after work at her place and they would have dinner. They would lie on her couch and he held her, his body pressed against her back or she would lie with her head on his chest. The kissed but that was all – it was enough. He told her that he was reading _The Old Man and the Sea_ and she asked him what it was about. Talking became easier; conversation flowed in a way he didn't realize it could. There were still quiet moments, of course, but they both seemed completely comfortable with them.

Karen tried to return the favor of cooking but she seemed so nervous about him just watching her that she burned the food. He believed her when she said that she would do better the next time; he believed her because he knew how she was feeling. There was something intense in the air between them; it was held over from that Sunday evening when they had both been partially undressed in his new apartment.

It felt powerful and terrifying; Frank couldn't control the pace of his heartbeat when he was pressed against her. He couldn't control other aspects of himself, either, but Karen never said a word. That made it more intense, he thought; if she had made a joke or even flirted with him because of it, he would know how she was feeling about having it pressed against her. But her silence didn't make him worry; it felt like another piece of what they were leading up to. He imagined that, when the time came, he would tell her a lot of things that he didn't dare say yet: _I love you. You're gorgeous. I want to see your body. Touch me._

The evenings they spent together were calm; when they weren't lying together, they held hands. Once, as if by accident, Frank brushed Karen's lower back with his hand when they were going to eat. Their eyes met and he _knew_ she had things that she wanted to say to him; he imagined the way her voice would sound when she said them. He imagined the sounds she would make when she came.

By Wednesday night, Frank's body was so hypersensitive to her that he felt her when she was standing several inches away. It was intoxicating. He noticed something that signaled a shift in her as well; she had stopped closing her bedroom door. He felt that this meant she was leaving it open for… _more_.

Something was wrong, though; he had noticed that Karen's boss had called her every night when she returned home from the office; sometimes twice. Their conversations were heated, like the one they had had on Sunday. She would state, emphatically, "Ellison, I'm home; I'm fine. The door is locked." At first, Frank had wondered if he had been spotted and her boss was concerned that The Big, Bad Punisher was after Karen, but he learned different.

He wasn't exactly proud of how he obtained the information, but he had to keep her safe. He attached a small bug to her purse; just a small one that he could use to listen in. The range was so short that he had to be careful to not be spotted, by her or anyone else.

That was how he came to be perched on top of a building, across from the _New York Bulletin_ in pouring rain on a Thursday in March. He was wearing a black slicker with the hood up, but it wasn't keeping his jeans dry while he knelt on the roof. He knew which window was her office from… other stalking ventures he had undertaken; he wasn't proud to admit to that either. He had his binoculars out and was wearing an earpiece that connected to a small antenna. When Karen walked into the offices, she was wearing a maroon pencil skirt and a black, long-sleeved shirt under her beige coat; her hair was down, as usual. She shook her umbrella out as she walked to her office. There were exactly nine other people in the _Bulletin_ 's offices; there were approximately eighty on that floor. One of the men, a man in his fifties, spotted Karen and charged after her like a hound; he had a bald head and a greying beard, with thick-rimmed glasses. _Ellison_.

"Page, we gotta talk," he said, shutting her office door. The voices were slightly muffled due to the placement of the microphone. The content of their conversation had his blood boiling as he listened.

"I'm _fine_ , Ellison," she said, setting the bag on her desk, luckily, instead of in a drawer where the voices would be less easily discerned. "They're just e-mails," she said, but even Frank could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.

"And two calls on your personal cell phone," he said, pointedly. "Don't just play this off, Karen." Apparently, this had been going on for a while.

"They're just sexist assholes who don't like that their names were published in an exposé. They'll stop after a while." It was then that Frank realized she was referring to the article he had read the week previously, about the lawyer who was suing over sexual harassment from senior partners in her firm.

 _And these fuckers were coming after Karen._

"And we _all know_ sexist assholes could _never_ hurt a fly," he responded, sarcastically.

"How many times have other reporters been threatened?" She asked, frustrated. "What should I do? Hide?"

"Oh, come off it, Karen," he said, standing tall and calling her out. "You know I have put others on administrative leave when they're receiving threats even half as fucked up as these." _Half as fucked up as these_... that made Frank angry. He felt his eye twitch.

Watching through the binoculars, Frank saw her shoulders deflate a little and she sighed. "Okay, what's the plan?"

"Officially, you're on leave," he said, immediately.

"And unofficially?" She asked.

"Dig," he said, simply, walking to the door. "Whoever is doing this, find them, and expose them. But to keep you safe, it can't look like you're doing it." Then he walked out. Frank knew that if Ellison hadn't told her to do this, she would have done it anyway. _Nose for trouble._

He watched Karen fall back into her chair and stay there for a few minutes, resting her face in her hands. He wanted to be there for her. He wanted to kill the son of a bitch who was threatening her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to beat them to death with his bare hands.

He shook himself and picked his equipment up, taking it apart, and set it in his bag. He took one last look at Karen's office and watched her walking out with her purse and laptop case. He smiled, heading to the door to go inside the building, then he took the stairs all the way down and walked right through the door without anyone even glancing at him. His hair was a bit longer now and he had more facial stubble, but he wasn't entirely unrecognizable. The slicker helped, he supposed. It also helped that, officially, Frank Castle's body was buried or cremated or something, compliments of the United States Department of Homeland Security.

He paused outside the entrance and watched the doors of _The Bulletin_ 's offices; he only waited a moment before he saw Karen exit the building. He began walking, matching her pace as she walked; he knew she preferred to walk home, but it was raining pretty heavily. She stepped to the curb and raised her arm in the air, hailing a cab. He checked the street before taking off at a sprint to catch the cab she was getting into; she didn't even notice him heading toward her. He reached the taxi just as she shut her door and he piled in beside her.

She turned with a "What the hell is your problem?" until she noticed it was him and smiled. "Hey," she said.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Hey."

She told the cabby her address and sat back, relaxing. The cabby closed the partition and Karen reached out to take Frank's hand. "What are you doing here?"

He half-smiled and looked out the window, before saying, "I was in the neighborhood."

"You were following me, weren't you?" Her voice didn't sound angry; maybe a little resigned.

He looked down at their hands and replied, "You didn't tell me you were having these problems."

She sat up, her face changing from calm to angry in a flash. "What the hell – " She felt her coat and then began going through her purse until she pulled the small, wired device out. "Frank, you asshole," she said, throwing it at his face.

He just let her; he knew she had a right to be mad. Any normal person would be; but he just stared at her hand and said, "I was worried."

She replied, "Then you _ask_ me about it, Frank!"

"I wondered why you didn't tell me," he said, calmly, looking out at the traffic.

"Because I –" she hesitated, looking away. "I don't want you to… I don't need you to…"

He knew what she was saying; she didn't want The Punisher to take care of it. She didn't want him to come out and hurt people. She didn't want him to kill anyone. She didn't want that on her conscience.

She didn't know what his conscience was like. Maybe she didn't want to know. The cab was slowing to stop at a red light and Frank considered getting out; he could find these cowards and put them down and Karen would never know. If he stayed, though, she _would_ know. And here was that line – the line they had toed months ago, when he had popped up back in her life. Here they were, standing side by side, looking over the line and wondering, simultaneously, if they could make that step.

"Frank," she said, trying to get him to look at her. "Frank, if I come to you with these things…" she stopped. He turned his head, angling toward her but not fully meeting her gaze. "I need to know…what you would do if I told you."

There it was. He knew this would happen eventually; he had hoped it wouldn't. He felt like their time together had only just begun and he knew what this would do. "I told you, before," he said, softly. "I can't let anything happen to you." He met her eyes, finally; she had tears forming, but they weren't falling yet. He let go of her hand and said, "I _can't_ lose you."

 _I love you._

He got out of the cab just as the light changed and he kept walking. The rain was pounding heavily and he couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard her calling his name. But it didn't matter; she _saw_ him, she knew. She knew that The Punisher would never die and he would never be satisfied. She knew he was a monster.

Frank reached his apartment and hung the slicker up over the linoleum in the entryway; he walked into his bedroom and opened the closet door. At the bottom was a green, metal crate that he pulled out and set down, heavily, on the floor. He opened it and reached in, feeling the cold metal of the guns inside and _remembered_. He had saved Karen's life when she wanted nothing to do with him before; he could do it again. He _would_ do it again.

 _I have to keep you safe_.

He opened his cell phone and called David Lieberman. The call was brief; no small talk. "Hack her email; get the contents sent to me."

He put the phone on the end table and waited for the information to be transmitted. He felt a pain he couldn't fully understand; it was like he couldn't breathe; as if his lungs and diaphragm were cramping. He remembered the pain; when he woke up from the coma and learned about his family; this was heartbreak.

He went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from his fridge, popping the cap off on the side of the counter. He was walking back into the living room when someone knocked on his door. He didn't need to look in the peephole; he knew Karen would come.

He opened the door and there she was; her hair was stringy from the rain; her skin was pale from the chill; her eyes were red from the tears. He moved aside to let her come in and she did without hesitation. She stopped in the living room, looking into the open door of his bedroom; her eyes were focused on the metal box. Each moment that passed _hurt_ him because he honestly didn't know if she would see Frank Castle when she looked at him, or if all she saw was The Punisher.

He said nothing as he leaned against his counter, watching her. She looked as if she couldn't decide whether to stay or go; couldn't decide if that box meant she had to leave. He waited and drank his beer. She drug her eyes away from the doorway and met his; she felt the same pain he did. He knew it. At that moment, he wanted to throw that crate out the fucking window and hold her; but he knew that this, this moment was when they decided if they could do this.

If Karen fucking Page, nose for trouble and heart of gold could _love_ The Punisher, Frank Castle. Not just love his pain; not just love his loyalty; love his rage and hate and vengeance. She had to make the choice for herself if she _could_ love someone who would, truly, kill a man that hurt her.

So he waited.

And she dropped her purse, laptop case, and coat to the floor and walked over to the counter, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him.

 _She chose him._


	14. Go To War

_Author's Note: Once again, writing tired and I've got a lot of stress right now. Please let me know what you think and if I made any errors. :)_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Screaming at the ones we love_

 _Like we forgot who we can trust_

 _Screaming at the top of our lungs_

 _On the grounds where we feel safe._

The kiss had lasted only a moment. Karen was pacing, now; walking back and forth between the entryway and the opposite wall. "So what happens first?"

Frank was in the same spot he had been, leaning against the counter. "Karen."

"You want to read the e-mails? I saved the voicemails, too."

"Karen."

"I've got the names of all of the men I interviewed."

"Karen!" She stopped pacing and met his eyes. "What are you doing?"

She looked at him, confused, and said, "We're going to find them."

He chuckled, looking down at his beer and realizing he'd cracked it open at barely nine in the morning. He set it on the counter and said, "No, no, you're not."

"What?" She asked, her eyes narrowing. "Of course I am."

"No, Karen, you're going to go home."

The look on her face was one of shock, incredulity, and anxiety. "Frank, I'm not going anywhere."

"Karen," he began, but she interrupted him.

"No, Frank, you don't get to pat me on the head and leave me at home while you go off to work. That's not what _this_ is," she said, gesturing between them. "It _never_ has been."

"Now, wait a minute," he began, but she continued.

"You've used me as bait, Frank! You _shot_ at me."

"You were safe," he argued.

"You hit my car with a truck and _left_ me in it!"

"I saved your life," he defended.

"But you've _never_ kept me from danger," she said, pointing at herself. "You have _never_ treated me like I can't handle myself!"

"Don't you think it's _different_ now?" He countered.

She shook her head and replied, "I didn't think it would _have_ to be different now. I didn't think you could ever think I was incapable." She looked shocked, bordering on furious. "I thought you thought more of me than that, Frank." He could tell that this anger went beyond this fight; he could tell that she had been underestimated so many times by Red and Nelson and Fisk. He had never treated her like she wasn't able to deal with the situations he put her in, because he knew she could do it. He saw the look in her eyes when he had entered her apartment after Fisk got him released from prison; he knew she'd kill him, she had it in her to do it.

He realized that he was, probably, one of the few men who knew she wasn't some _damsel_. "I don't think that," he said, looking down. "I know you can handle yourself."

"But you think that it should be different now? Why?" He couldn't answer that; he had trusted her with so many things, so many dangerous things and now, she was asking him to do it again. She was asking him to do for her what he had asked her to do for him over and over.

 _A woman to match him_.

He knew that Red had never believed she could take care of herself; Nelson, either. He remembered how the blond lawyer had emphatically refused to allow Frank to talk to her alone at the hospital. He knew that Red dumped her for that ninja girl; or maybe Karen found out about it and left him. All he knew was that he didn't want to be anything like that guy. This was what he wanted. He wanted to stand, side by side, with Karen and show her that he would always be there to protect her, just as she would be for him. This was his chance to show her that. This was his chance to be a man to match _her_.

He stepped away from the counter and walked to where she stood, meeting her eyes. He took her face in his hands; they were standing so close he felt her breath on his skin. He remembered the night that he had killed Schoonover; he remembered the moments afterward when he'd begun to cry. At that moment, he imagined that he was shedding tears for his family; of course, he had finally avenged them, he thought. But he knew, he _always_ knew, he shed those tears because, even after he had finished his business, he knew he had fucked everything up with Karen. At the time, he had wanted to run after her, drop to his knees, and beg her, but he knew she was gone; not just physically, but emotionally. He had lost her.

But here she was in his arms, months later, asking him to let her stay. "You still got that hand-cannon?" He asked.

She smiled and nodded, "You'd better believe it."

"Good," he said, "but you have to know that these assholes aren't getting off with a warning."

He watched her expression carefully and, when he didn't see the expression he expected, he hesitated. She simply replied, "Yeah, well, this isn't my first rodeo, Frank."

He watched her still, maintaining the space between them as his eyes moved over every inch of her face. He decided, in that moment, that he truly had always wanted this; he had always yearned for someone to share in the darkness and the light. Everything about her drew him in; her nerve, her kindness, her adaptability, bravery, and the way she understood him. Something in her eyes – determination, stubbornness, rage, fear – made his decision for him and he nodded, a quick shake of the head. Then he pulled away.

"Frank?" She said, questioning.

He paused and said, "We've got some _sexist assholes_ to take down, Karen. Let's get going."

Even though she knew what he meant; even though she knew he intended to torture and murder them, she smiled. Not a malicious smile of a woman looking to get back at men who intended to do her harm; it was a warm smile at the man who wanted to do _right_ by her. It was a smile full of love. "Okay," she said.

He held out his hand to her and she took it. "Okay," he replied and walked over to her pile of items on the floor and picked up her laptop case, coat, and purse in his free hand, then they walked over the his couch and sat down. "What did you receive first, the e-mails or phone calls?"

"I got two e-mails before the first call," she said.

"And you have a list of the men you interviewed?"

She nodded and said, "At my place."

"I'll go get it," he said, simply, and stood up. She stood as well and pulled her coat on. "I'll just go," he said, noticing her.

"It'll take you twice as long if I'm not there." There she was; Karen Page with her fucking nose for trouble and that tone that left him nowhere to go but her way. He nodded and pulled the slicker back on, stepping out into the rain. Once they got to the street, Karen opened her umbrella and reached over to take his hand.

They walked in silence to the street and she hailed a cab; he would have been fine with walking but it was probably thirty degrees outside and she was wearing a skirt and heels. A taxi pulled over to them and he opened the door, letting her in first. When they were inside, she told the driver her address and Frank sat quietly. Their fingers were still laced together and he noticed how cold she was; he held her hand up to his lips and blew warm air over her skin, then rubbed his free hand over it. When he had succeeded in warming her up a bit, he reached for her other hand and repeated the movements. She watched him with pleasure as he did these things, smiling softly. This moment was so normal, so ordinary, that they could almost forget that they were going to plot some stalking and potential murders. But Karen often did that for him; she could call him an asshole or a jerk and yell at him for his behaviors, but to her, he was a man. To her, he was even a _good_ man. He wasn't a monster, wearing a human suit that he pulled on to court her. She believed that he had a monster suit he wore to deal with his grief.

He wondered if she could be right… but he knew that the reality was that he had always been this way. When he had told David's son that he joined the military to hurt people, he wasn't lying. He wanted to cause pain; he was good at it. He'd imagined that settling down and starting a family would cause the desire to go away but it didn't; it just went dormant. But when they died, it _awoke_ and it was hungry.

They arrived at her apartment and Frank kept his eyes moving over the pedestrians and drivers, constantly sizing each of them up and observing where their attentions were focused. When he turned around, she had reached the doors and was unlocking them; he walked up the steps and followed her to the elevators. While they waited, he continued his watch; no one entered the building after them and the lobby area was empty.

They reached her apartment and he immediately felt himself calming down; when they walked inside, he immediately noticed that her blinds were drawn. He couldn't recall another time that he had been here when her blinds were closed. He also recalled that he had spent months watching her from the roof across the street and he had never noticed them closed. He remembered how many times he had imagined being on the other side of the window, standing where he was standing; he hadn't allowed himself to imagine it much but when he did… He turned around and pulled her into his arms, suddenly.

"What?" She asked, wrapping her arms around him, beneath the wet slicker. He shook his head; he didn't tell her that he had imagined doing just this for so long. He had ignored it, forced it down, but he didn't need to anymore. Here he was, holding her so tightly, as if she might disappear if he let go.

He relaxed his hold and she slipped out of his arms, leaving a soft kiss on his cheek. He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips but she didn't say a word. She walked into her bedroom and opened the closet, reaching down to pull a black file box out. She set it on the floor and began flipping through the tabs, finally pulling out a folder so thick, it had to have two-hundred sheets of paper in it.

She closed the box and put it back in the closet, shutting the door. When she saw the look on his face, she smiled, "I have about thirty pages of interviews and background information for each of the men I interviewed." She held the folder up and said, "This is all for twelve guys."

"Jesus," he whispered as they walked back to the door to leave. Their return trip to Frank apartment was very much the same, except the rain had stopped. It was still clouded over and he left his hood up.

Frank read the emails over and over until he felt sick with rage, then he read them again. He was sitting on the couch with his back to the armrest and one leg up on the cushion. The laptop was facing away from Karen. When they returned, he had a message from David, saying he had full access to her email. He could tell that Micro had read the emails, too, because he said he was finding the IP addresses of where the emails had been sent from. Whoever was writing them was _sick_ ; threats of rape, torture, threatening to film it and send it to her boss.

"It doesn't make sense," she whispered. Frank looked up and she said, "The story was already out." Karen was sitting on the other end of the couch, reading through the file. "Who could benefit from threatening me _after_ the story was published?"

He nodded, setting the laptop on the ground. "Nothing happened during the interview process? No emails then?"

She shook her head, thinking, but then said, "I got a couple phone calls from 'Restricted' numbers. I didn't answer them and they didn't leave messages."

"You did get voicemails, though," he said and she nodded, picking up her phone and dialing her voicemail.

The voice was that deep, electronic speech that was usually used to conceal one's identity. It expressed the same threats that the emails did; rape, torture, more rape, murder. When the first one ended, the second one played. "Wait," he said, "Play that one again."

"Karen Page, you think you're smart, hiding behind your blinds and pretending you don't ruin people's lives! You're disgusting. I'll fucking rip you apart, you stupid bitch, then I'll –" and Frank pressed the 'END' button on her screen.

"'Behind your blinds,'" he repeated. They looked at one another and Frank said, "He knows where you live."


	15. The Last to Fall

_Author's Note: Hi! So...you're welcome. ;)_

* * *

 _And will you be bold?_

 _Will you lose control?_

 _I could never desert you._

 _I could never let go._

"He knows where you live," he said, standing and walking to the door at such a speed, she had to run to grab him, but she did.

"What are you doing?" She asked, pulling him by the arm. When he turned to look at her, she flinched; seeing that, forced all of the rage out of his body and he stopped moving. He turned his body toward her and reached up to cup her cheek. "We don't _know_ that he's watching my apartment," she said in a whisper.

"You can see right into your window from the roof across the street," he said, without thinking.

Her eyes widened and met his; she released a breath and let her eyes fall shut. "I always thought you were watching me," she said. She didn't sound mad; her voice seemed almost sad and he knew her next question before she asked it. "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"

"You said you were done," he whispered, his own voice sad. "Said I was dead to you. I thought… I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me."

She put her palm over his hand on her cheek and leaned into it; he felt the warm tears hit his skin as she cried and he put his other hand on her cheek. He brought their foreheads together, his own eyes stinging remembering the pain from that night. "After I killed him, Schoonover," he said, quietly, "I wanted to go after you."

"I wanted you to," she said, immediately, and then clamped her mouth shut as if she, too, was afraid to say too much. They stood in silence and forgot that Karen's life was in danger, forgot the threats, the fear. "After Matt died," she whispered after a few moments, "I looked for you everywhere. Sometimes, I thought I heard you or saw you around but I kept thinking that you…wouldn't want to see me."

"I did, I…" he began and stopped himself from telling her about the sleepless months, all of the nights spent watching her and missing her. All of the time he could have been with her but was too stupid to accept it. He had to die to allow himself to live, it seemed. "I thought about you all the time," he finally admitted.

Then she did something he never expected her to do. She had so often let him make the moves, initiate the encounters, but she kissed him and wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her lips to run her tongue over his. He groaned at the contact and opened his mouth to her; he tilted his head and ran his hands down her back, letting them sit just above the curve of her ass and pulled her flush against him. She unwound her arms and ran her hands down his chest and abdomen then lifted his shirt to explore his skin; her fingers were still a bit cold but his skin was so hot, the contrast felt amazing. She moved her hands up over his nipples and he gasped into her mouth; she made contact again and he slid his hands down, over her skirt and squeezed the supple flesh. The moan she let out nearly caused him to faint as all of the blood in his body rushed to his erection; she grabbed his shirt and pulled it up and he was forced to release her to allow the shirt to slide up his arms; it was thrown to the floor and his hands resumed their position, gladly.

Karen's hands seemed to be everywhere, unable to settle on a specific spot; she couldn't decide what part of his body she liked more. It seemed that her bold move was paying off, so she took it a step further and slid her finger tips under the waistband of his jeans and briefs, running them, experimentally, over the skin of his ass. "Jesus," he whispered and pulled her harder against him. He moved his own hands to the fabric of her shirt, pulling it to untuck it from her skirt and she only seemed to kiss him harder. Luckily, it wasn't a button up and he was able to pull it over her head; however, she lost the contact with his skin and their kiss was broken, but when he saw her bra, he forgot to care about that. Sky blue lace over her soft, pale skin; he bit his lip as he stared and he felt her eyes boring into his head. She was embarrassed, he knew and he also could tell that she wanted to cover up.

"I've wanted to see you," he said, his voice gruff. "Fuck, I want to see all of you." He moved in and his lips attacked her throat as his hands moved over the skin of her back, interrupted only slightly by the thin fabric of her bra. She was moaning and gasping and working on the zipper on her skirt, but it was not going well, on account of his mouth and hands distracting her.

"Frank," she gasped when his mouth moved over her clavicle. He grabbed her ass again and felt her struggling with the zipper, so he pushed her hands away and took it, while he licked and nipped his way down to her right breast. Her hands moved to the back of his head, holding him against her. The zipper was tiny and he struggled for a few seconds before it gave and he yanked it down, followed by her skirt. Once that was off, he moved back to her lips with his own, grabbing her thighs as he went and lifting her up. "Oh fuck, Frank," she gasped, feeling his erection pressed against her through his jeans. "I want you," she gasped as she moved her hips against him. "I've wanted you for so long."

They entered the bedroom and Frank sat them on the edge of the bed, so her legs were straddling him. Her hands were digging into his back and he knew she was leaving marks and he loved it; she was kissing the sensitive skin behind his ear while he ran his hands down her back. His eyes were closed as he felt the soft material of her panties; he realized hadn't even seen what they looked like, he had been so focused on getting them into the bedroom. He squeezed her flesh and groaned when he felt her teeth on his neck; he let his hand slip further down and heard her gasp. Her hips jerked into his hand and he felt how soaked her panties were already.

"Frank," she gasped, moving her hips against his hand, "I want – "

Then the sound of someone pounding on the door interrupted her. She immediately moved off of his lap and sat on the bed, her eyes worried. He stood up and pulled the blanket off of the bed to wrap it around her. "Stay here," he said, "I'll grab your clothes and close the door."

"Frank!" He heard David Lieberman's voice calling through the door. "Come on, I have a key, you know."

Frank had grabbed his shirt and was pulling it on as he shouted, "Why the fuck do you have a key, Lieberman?" The only response he received was a laugh. He swept Karen's clothes up and took them back to her; he kissed her forehead and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He walked to the front door and opened it, saying, "Why do you have a key?"

David didn't respond; he was smiling widely as he walked through the entrance. His hair was wild as usual, but he was wearing a pair of grey slacks and a pale pink button up, carrying a leather laptop case. "I found him," he said, simply.

Frank followed him, grumbling something about "Just come on in" but stopped when he heard David's statement. "You found..?"

"The asshole who's sending Karen those disgusting emails," he said, his face showing that he had read them. "I tracked the IP addresses he sent the emails from; I know where he sent them from."

"Where?" Karen said, suddenly in the room with them.

Her entrance had gone unnoticed by both men and Lieberman actually jumped a little. He also looked back and forth between Karen and Frank and he finally let them sit on his friend, and Frank saw the leer his received. "You must be Karen Page," he said, walking over with his right hand extended.

"And you're David Lieberman," she said, taking his hand.

He nodded, holding up his laptop, "This guy goes to a bunch of diners and coffee shops with free wi-fi, always during the lunch hours."

"Because he works," Karen supplied.

"Yes, but not at the law firm you investigated," he replied, pulling his laptop out.

"What?" Karen asked, confused.

David sat down on the couch and opened his laptop; Frank asked, "Someone get fired over the allegations?"

She shook her head, saying, "No, unless it was all hush-hush."

David gestured to his screen, "I can find out."

Frank nodded at him, "Do it."

"Done," he replied, opening up an email that was not under his own name. "This is the senior partner's email," he said as if he weren't talking about highly secure servers he'd hacked into. "There was a memo about 'restructuring' that was sent out… on March 5th."

"The day after the article was published," Karen said.

"Looks like there were three people who got fired," he said, reading the email. "Let me get into the employment records."

"Can you save copies of this information?" She asked, pulling a thumb drive out of her laptop case.

But Frank intercepted her, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the kitchen, saying, "Karen, I told you how this ends."

David pretended to be very interested in the images on his screen. Her eyes were boring into his and she knew she wasn't talking to Frank Castle, not really. The Punisher had a target and he wasn't going to let go. She knew whoever it was had signed his own death warrant. This target had threatened _her_ and The Punisher wouldn't be satisfied until he had blood on his hands.


	16. Into the Nothing

_Author's Note: Alright, here is this one. This was really hard on me and I rewrote it over and over. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _Into the nothing_

 _Faded and weary_

 _I won't leave_

 _And let you fall behind._

Karen put her hand over his. "Frank," she said, "it won't matter that they have been threatening me. If you torture all three of them, you'll be exposed and the shit that this guy has done will be buried by the police." She paused and looked down at where he was still gripping her wrist. "You would have to kill them all."

He knew she was making a good point and he let his hand drop. He could tell that there was more to it than her concern that he would be found. "Okay," he said, calmly, "let's make a plan."

She didn't want him to kill anymore. _Anyone anymore_.

"Let me check these names against the men I interviewed. Maybe something will strike a chord," she said.

She stepped away, putting the USB back into her bag. David seemed to recognize that he was allowed to pay attention to their conversation at that point and turned toward them. "I did that and none of these guys are on the list," he said, reading the screen. "Were there men the victim accused that you didn't put in the story?"

She shook her head and asked, "How can that be?"

"It was a smoke screen," Frank said. "Rather than actually cleaning house, they fired low-level guys for PR."

"These guys blame my story for their lost jobs," Karen said; her face betrayed her guilt and anger.

"It's not your fault, Karen." Frank walked to the couch and looked over David's shoulder. "Do any of these guys live near the places where the emails were sent?"

He nodded and said, "I already checked that and two of the three live within a few blocks."

"Get me those addresses," Frank said; his tone was low and angry as he imagined this son of a bitch putting his hands on Karen, even _imagining_ putting his hands on her.

"You said we would make a plan," David said. "You can't just torture these guys."

"I won't _just_ do anything," he said in a loud growl.

Karen approached him and said, "I have a plan."

He looked at her and attempted to interrupt, but she held up her hand. They listened as she spoke. It was a bad plan. Frank knew it immediately after she told them; he hated it. He didn't want to do it. But Karen had that look on her face that said _this is the plan_ and there was no arguing with her. She gave Lieberman a task and he nodded his head, then he shut his laptop screen.

Karen refused to meet Frank's eyes as she moved to the opposite wall and stood, leaning against it. David stood up from the couch and grabbed his laptop, sliding it into the bag. He gave Frank a small note paper with the three names on it and then went to Karen and hugged her. This was strange and Frank watched with intensity behind his eyes. "I'm sorry this is happening," David said, patting her on the back.

She seemed surprised too, at first, but then said, "Thanks," and patted his arm.

With that, David Lieberman walked to the door. "Frank, the kids want to see you again. Don't be a stranger."

"Yeah, yeah," he replied as the door shut. He looked up at Karen, their eyes meeting and he suddenly remembered what they'd been doing before David showed up. He felt his face flush but he didn't break eye contact; he realized how close they had come to...

Karen walked over to him and stood in his space, close enough to smell her skin again, and she grabbed the paper from his hand. "These are the names of the guys who got fired?" She asked, looking over the paper.

"Addresses too," He replied, absently, trying not to remember the sound she had made when he'd touched her and felt how _wet_ she had been. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. "Karen," he whispered and she looked at him again.

"Two of these addresses are in the area David showed us," she said, but he could tell she wasn't really thinking about them. He nodded, leaning over to, seemingly, look at the paper, but he really wanted to observe how she responded to him. Her skin was flushed and he could hear her breathing faster. She leaned into him more, unconsciously, and he leaned his arm against the wall; their faces were inches apart.

"Frank," she whispered putting both of her hands on either side of his face and pressed their foreheads together. It was reminiscent of the elevator, but so much had happened since then and Frank wasn't afraid as he had been then. He lunged forward, crashing their lips together and pulling her body flush against his, twisting his hands in her hair before sliding down her back. She wasted no time in responding, sliding her hands up his shirt and then dragging her nails down. When she heard his gasp, she took the opportunity to slide her tongue into his mouth. He groaned, wrapping his hand behind her head and deepening the kiss.

He turned them and pressed her against the wall with his body and if her damn skirt weren't so tight, he would have her legs around his hips again and, oh, how he wanted that. She seemed to feel the same because she was gripping his waist and digging her fingernails into his skin. He groaned again and slid his hands over her ass.

She began to pull his t-shirt off but the moment was interrupted when her phone made a sound and he pulled away from her. "That's an e-mail," she said, her breathing harsh.

He turned around and walked over to her purse, grabbing the device and bringing it back to her. She nodded and he unlocked her phone and tapped the notification to open the message. It was from the same e-mail address as the others and spouted the same sexually violent threats that made him sick with rage. Reading it after what they had been doing made him feel even more ill. She didn't read it; when he leaned it toward her, she pushed it away.

Frank pulled out his own cellphone and called David. "Hey, she just got another e-mail. It just came in, right now."

"I'm on it," he said.

"Find out where he sent it from right now."

"On it," David said, annoyed.

"Hurry," Frank growled.

"Jesus, Frank, I'm on it," he shouted back. "Alright, he sent the email from _Frisson Espresso_ on 47th St."

"Thanks, David. You know what to do." he said and ended the call, already walking to the door. "Karen, we've got a plan to carry out."

A bad damn plan but it was what they had.


	17. Who We Are

_Author's Note:_ _Alright, I want to get this out there. I received a review that said the story I was writing had no plot and so I've been kind of forcing one. It isn't the reviewer's fault but I have to say that the sexual harassment and rape threats were never part of my origial idea. My goal was for Frank and Karen to find one another after the Rawlins/Russo stuff and work on being together and I might take this all down and redo it with THAT as the story. The rest hasn't been what I wanted at all and I think that comes through the work._

 _Thanks to everyone for reading and please give me your thoughts!_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _We're awake in this dream_

 _And we choose to believe_

 _That the you that's in me_

 _Is in everything._

Frank was furious. This plan was so dangerous and so bad; he'd just gone along with it. He knew that he was too far away to protect her if this son of a bitch made a move. What it he had a goddamn gun and shot Karen _right before his eyes_ and all he could do was watch. He saw so many flaws and holes in the plan that he kept shaking his head, even as he willingly ascended the fire escape. So, here he was on the roof of the building across from _Frisson Espresso_ with his hood up and his binoculars, looking over the patrons and pedestrians. David was sitting at the café, a hot cup of coffee on the table with his laptop open, searching the sea of portable technology to find the right device. Frank moved the binoculars to the right and saw Karen walking toward the restaurant. The two men had mics and earpieces to allow them to communicate; she didn't have one, which was a big part of her plan that Frank hated. She looked calm and normal, slowing to pause near the first table. She began digging into her purse, trying to look busy and distracted. Frank just thought she looked like an easy target.

Through the binoculars, he was looking for men who might be watching her, but Karen was gorgeous and pretty much every guy on the street or sitting at a table noticed her. Frank bit down on the rising feeling of possessiveness, maybe even a little bit of jealousy, as he watched men give her obscene and vulgar looks. He felt his eye twitching as he observed it. Did men look at women this way all the time? The thought pissed him off – all of these pigs in New York were looking at his girl like this every day.

 _His girl_.

That thought brought him back to the moments before she had received this latest e-mail, even before David had shown up, and he remembered the way her skin felt, the smooth lines of her body, and the curve of her hips.

He blinked and noticed something, or someone, but he lost it as a few pedestrians walked past and he had to wait to locate it – whatever _it_ was that he had seen. Then it appeared again – a man, blond, lean, early thirties, and he was focused on Karen. But the look he had wasn't one of sexual desire or attraction, or even lewd appreciation; his look was of _loathing_.

"Got you," Frank said, under his breath. He then spoke up, "David, three tables to your left; blond guy, blue striped shirt."

"I see him," David responded into the mic. "He's got a tablet…looks like a Windows," he said, mostly to himself. He continued mumbling and Frank didn't think he was expected to understand or listen at all, so he kept his mind focused on _this son of a bitch_ whose eyes were moving over Karen. "I got him," Lieberman said, interrupting the burning rage in Frank's belly and keeping it from exploding. For the moment, that is. She appeared to be moving toward the curb to hail a taxi and David said, "Okay, this guy is definitely on the list of guys who got fired. His name is Connor Graham."

"He's getting up, Lieberman," Frank said, starting to move to the left side of the building to get to the fire escape. The blond was walking toward Karen, purposefully, winding through the tables. "He's moving toward Karen," his voice was getting escalated as he watched the scene unfold.

Karen's back was to the man as he approached and Frank was already heading down the fire escape. He stopped and looked over, seeing the blond man nearly reach her, then turn sharply to the left and begin walking down the block. He watched as the guy disappeared from view and he took off down the stairs again. "What's happening, Lieberman?"

"Karen is at the curb and Connor is, oh shit, he's getting in a car."

"Make, color?" Frank gasped out as he ran, running faster and faster to get to the bottom.

"Blue sedan," David said, sounding as though he were moving around the tables as well.

Frank leapt to the last balcony and slid down the ladder, racing around the corner to watch a second man – this one with brown hair and a grey button up shirt – step up behind Karen had grab her. The blue sedan was in front of her but she didn't know what was happening. Lieberman was already rushing toward them, but he was moments too late. Connor and the other guy had the back door open and Karen, kicking and screaming, thrown into the backseat.

"Shit, they got her Frank," he said as he reached the curb and the car was already speeding away.

"I need your car," he said, simply, as he crossed the street and reached David in seconds. He handed the keys over without comment and Frank was in it, starting it, and driving away in less than thirty seconds. "David, where could they go?"

"I've got the location," he said into the mic.

"You what?"

"Her plan was terrible, so when I hugged her, I planted a GPS device."

Frank smirked, speeding through traffic as he tried to keep the blue sedan in his sight at all times, but he lost it. "Lieberman, you're a genius."

"Okay, now, don't get too mushy on me," he said, seriously. "Okay, they turned but they're still going straight. Take the next right." Frank followed his direction, and the next and the next. "They're heading down an alley; you'll need to turn left at the next block. You can cut them off," he said, excitedly.

Frank sped around traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions, and took the left turn. He saw the sedan coming toward him and he hit the throttle, but the car turned into a parking garage, suddenly. He hit the parking break, screeching the tires and spinning the car, then hit the gas again, speeding into the garage after them.

While it felt like hours, this chase had not lasted longer than twenty minutes; Frank kept repeating to himself: "She's okay, she's tough, she's okay."

"What level are they on?" He shouted into the mic, looking around and not seeing the sedan.

"They're on the second level," David replied, his own voice sounding terrified.

The car bottomed out on the incline to enter the second level, but he didn't care. When he reached the top, he saw the car and saw _them_. The two men were practically dragging Karen with them and he saw the blood on her cheek and lip. Frank saw red. He sped the car up, driving directly at them; they tried to run, faster, but he slammed on the parking break, the back tires squealing as the car spun in a half circle so close to the three of them that Connor, blond and wiry, was struck by the rear of the car and thrown backward, into his own windshield.

Frank got out of the car just in time to watch Karen twist around, bring her leg up and knee the brunette in the balls. Then she grabbed his hair and brought his face down to smash it into her knee, then let him fall to the ground. She wiped the blood from her lip and groped in her purse, her blue eyes on fire with rage. She pulled the .380 out and aimed it at the brunette as he writhed on the ground. Frank turned his gaze to the blond just as he was pushing himself off the trunk of the car to lunge at her; the larger man grabbed Connor's arm and spun him around, pressing his face and chest into the trunk of the car, twisting his arm in the air. Frank dark eyes watched the blond and he twisted his arm more. He listened to his screams of pain while that inhuman growl erupted from his chest.

He turned and looked Karen over, asking, "You okay?"

"Yeah. This prick punched me in the face," she said, gesturing toward the brunette with her gun.

Frank could still see the blood on her cheekbone and he heard the blond scream again as The Punisher was twisting his arm. "This is Connor Graham," he said.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I didn't interview him but the victim said that she had initially brought his name to her superiors. He was forced to apologize in writing."

Connor tried to speak, but Frank lifted his torso off the car by his arm and slammed him back down again, hard enough to knock him out. He let his body drop to the ground, then walked over to Karen. "Lieberman," he said into the mic, "I dented your bumper." Then he lifted his boot up and slammed it down on the brunette's face, jerking his head back and slamming it into the concrete.

"On what? Did you hit someone with my car?"

"Nah, well… sorta," Frank replied, then knelt down and felt in the brunette's pockets for a wallet, pulling it out and checking his license.

"You think either of them saw your face?" David asked, practically.

"I doubt it," he said, checking to make sure his hood was still up. "This one is James Crowley," he said, showing the license to Karen.

"I don't recognize his name," she said, looking at Frank; he stood up, meeting her gaze and he knew what she was going to say next. "Let me call the police," her voice didn't sound like she was begging or demanding, or even arguing. She was just asking. His rage hadn't abated; his gut was tense with it, but he didn't speak. "They didn't see you; they didn't hurt me." His eye was still twitching and he felt his jaw tense and release as he chewed on her words, looking at the blood on her lip and cheek. "These two will get me the senior partners and, if they don't talk, at least they'll go away for kidnapping."

He looked down at her hand, clutching that .380 and he _knew_ she had it in her to kill these two if for what they'd done to her. But she didn't.

And, this time, he would let it be her call.

"I'll see you later, Karen," he said, walking to the stairwell to exit the structure.


	18. Alone

_Author's Note: Here is the next chapter! I'm feeling pretty good about this. I may add more content later._

 _Edit: I just want everyone to know that reading your comments keeps me inspired. I am so happy when I see them, even if it is constructive criticism! It really empowers my writing! And the kudos are so wonderful to see because this fic is very important to me. I'm so happy to share this with you all. 3_

* * *

 _You're running through my dreams_

 _It's like you're on repeat_

 _Feels like eternity_

 _I can't believe._

Frank hadn't missed the look on Karen's face when he had left her in the parking garage. He had met her gaze when he walked away and he saw it there; it wasn't smug or satisfaction as he would have anticipated, since he had just agreed to _not kill those fuckers_. No, her look was soft and happy. She looked as though he were giving her something _precious_.

He had shown her that he was still a man. Maybe that _was_ precious.

That had been nearly two weeks ago and he hadn't seen her since. It was nearing April and the trees in Hell's Kitchen had begun to bloom. He wanted to share it with her, but knew he couldn't. Not now. After Karen had taken her story public and published her article, in which those assholes gave up the senior partners at the law firm, the cops were patrolling her building and following her to work. All she had succeeded in doing was trading disgusting threats for more expensive threats. She was big news again and even Frank had heard that there was talk of a Pulitzer.

His nights continued to be sleepless and he wanted to sit on the roof across from her building. He wanted to _see_ her. He had started walking there nearly every night, but stopped and turned around. He had her phone number but never called it. He hadn't really considered it and he wasn't sure why. When he had watched her from the roof before, he had refused to admit that he cared about her, wanted her, needed her; he had been _married_. But Maria was gone.

And he _missed_ Karen. He had felt her bare skin against his and it filled him with desire. It went beyond lust, though; far beyond the need to _fuck_ her. He wanted to be in her presence, her essence, her body. He wanted to feel her heat pressed against him, surrounding him; he wanted that heat to engulf him. It was powerful, this need; it was suffocating and rejuvenating, peaceful and chaotic. He couldn't stay in one place for more than a few moments; he was sitting on the couch with his head leaning back, but moments before, he had been standing in the kitchen, looking at the counter where they had kissed.

He wanted her heat to engulf them both; he remembered feeling it when they were on his bed, the flames nearly burning his skin. He was sure they would have burned alive, but they had stopped. At the time, it seemed like a missed opportunity. When those fucks had her, he wouldn't allow himself to worry that he would never feel the heat of her skin again. He had pushed that fear down into his gut and there it stayed until he watched her kick the shit out of that guy all on her own. In hindsight, he had to admit, that _had_ been pretty sexy.

 _His girl, kicking that guy's ass._

He had always known she was one tough woman; she had clearly endured some shit and had come out of it fighting. He wondered what had happened, wondered what was done to her that led her to the woman he knew. He wondered if the man who had done it was still alive so he could take care of him. He would never ask her about it, though. He wouldn't pretend that he didn't see it in her; he wasn't afraid to show her that he could see her strength, her power.

He felt the restlessness of his body and moved from the couch to the bed and looked at the clock. _3:07 AM_. He kicked his jeans off, letting them settle on the floor and he pulled his t-shirt off. He rolled his shoulders out and lay down, shutting the light off to try and get some sleep. Lying in bed, he thought about what it would be like to wake up next to her, make her breakfast and coffee; he would kiss her in a soft way that didn't have this desperate tension behind it. He wondered what it would be like to be a normal couple, but then he laughed at himself; what normal couple met in flurry of gun shots? What normal couple had flirted while discussing attempted murder? Did they kiss while one was receiving threats against her life?

They would never be _normal_ but he could still do ordinary things for her. He could wake her up with kisses and feel her soft hair and smooth skin. But he would revel in their extraordinariness. He could be a man to match her.

When he opened his eyes again, it was daylight and he checked the clock. _10:53 AM_. He got up and turned the coffee maker on; he listened to it percolate while he leaned against the counter. He felt himself smiling as he imagined them having coffee together. He figured that she was at work. He could bring her coffee there; if he grew his hair out again, they wouldn't readily recognize him.

He was pulled from his reverie by an unfamiliar sound: his cell phone was ringing. He felt that tension in his gut, wondering if she was calling. He wondered what he should say. He went to his jeans and felt in the pockets, finally locating the object. He recognized the number but it wasn't Karen.

He hit the green button on the screen and held it to his ear. "How's it going, Curt?" He asked.

"Hey, man," his friend replied. "I just read about your girl's adventures."

Frank chuckled, "Yeah, she's definitely had her share of those."

Curt laughed and asked, "So, how's that going?"

He wasn't referring to the kidnapping, Frank knew. "I haven't seen her for a while," he replied, trying to hide the edge in his voice. "The extra attention she's getting will die down."

"I heard she beat some dude's ass," he said, impressed but also amused. "Of course, you'd find some tough-as-nails woman to fall for. But I don't worry about her anymore; I know she'll kick your ass if you fuck up," he laughed.

Frank smiled, "What makes you think she hasn't already?"

"Well, you're still breathing, so it must not have been that bad." He paused and then continued, "But then again, you sure can take a few hits."

He chuckled, shaking his head, "Yeah, thanks Curt."

"So when are you gonna brave it and go see her?" He asked. "I can tell you're going nuts."

"I'm fine," he replied too hastily.

"Bullshit, man," Curt said, his tone serious. "She got kidnapped and you, Mr. I-Punish-Wrong-Doers, are sitting at home, avoiding her." Frank didn't respond, so he continued. "You think you didn't protect her? Is that it? You think ramming a car into one of them wasn't enough?"

"No," he said, "I don't."

"Well, from the stories I'm hearing, she's getting a whole lot of trouble for it," Curt said and Frank couldn't decipher his tone.

"I know," he replied, unsure. He knew that the men she exposed had been threatening her, hence the increase in police presence.

"She could probably use some extra _muscle_ , you know?" Curt said, his voice clearly leading.

Frank looked up, suddenly realizing what his friend was saying and nodded, but said, "She's got the cops, man."

Curt scoffed and said, "And we both know cops would _never_ sacrifice a life to make a buck."


	19. Daylight Ends

_Author's Note: Hello! I really like this chapter but love feedback. I wrote it in a rush so please note any grammar/spelling errors you see. :)_

 _Thanks and enjoy!_

* * *

 _When angels fall with broken wings_

 _I can't give up, I can't give in._

 _When all is lost and daylight ends,_

 _I'll carry you and we will live forever._

Frank was even more restless during the day, waiting for it to be dark enough for him to go to her. His hair was longer and he had some facial hair but he didn't know if it was enough to disguise him, so he needed to wait. He had his Desert Eagle in the back of his jeans and he felt it pressing into his skin for hours. He wasn't wearing the armor but he had considered it. He had listened to his police band radio all day, monitoring it for activity near her apartment, but he knew that they would come at night. If they didn't make their move tonight, he would return _every single night_. He would keep her safe.

He realized, around 4:45, that he hadn't eaten at all today and he pulled out some leftovers. He didn't heat it up; when he was done, he made a fresh pot of coffee and pulled out the thermos. It was around forty degrees, but when the sun set, he knew it would cool down to twenty degrees. He pulled his coat on and poured the coffee into the thermos; he grabbed additional magazines for his Desert Eagle and the suppressor, too. He had his sniper rifle in its case in his duffle bag by the door. He packed the thermos inside as well. By the time the sky was darkening, he was leaving his apartment.

The walk took the usual time; he wanted to run all the way there but he didn't. He needed to stay calm, focused. This wasn't a social visit. When he arrived on her block, he immediately noted a police cruiser in front of her building with two officer inside, as well as three undercover officers walking the streets. They were wearing street clothes, but he could tell that they weren't average pedestrians. He guessed that the threats against Karen must have been pretty aggressive to warrant this much protection.

Or the department knew that they needed to watch their people. Curt was right; it seemed that there were some cops who would sacrifice a life to make a buck. He kept walking to the next block and then took a left into the alley. He moved quickly, quietly, to the fire escape, and ascended it. He reached the roof and looked it over, making sure no other interested parties had discovered this place. But it was as empty as it had been the last time he was here. He moved onto the gravel of the rooftop and began assembling his rifle; he used the scope to watch the police for a while but then, as if he had no control, he was looking into Karen's window.

Unlike the last time he had been in her place, her shades were open. He smiled because he _knew_ that she expected him to be up here. He could see her almost immediately; she wasn't sitting at her laptop this time. She was drinking a beer in her kitchen; her hair was loose around her shoulders and she was wearing a grey cardigan over a black t-shit and _those shorts_.

Oh yeah, she knew he was watching her.

He licked his lips as he watched her take a drink. How the _fuck_ could she tell he was there? He pulled out his cell phone and stared at it, knowing what he wanted to do but unsure of whether it was right or not. He pursed his lips and dialed her number, putting the earpiece in his ear and setting the phone down. He watched her; she noticed the sound of her phone and looked at it, smiled a huge, sexy smile and tapped the screen.

"Hello," she said.

"Thought I told you not to wear those shorts, Karen," he said, teasingly.

She smirked again and looked out the window from where she stood. It was almost as though she were meeting his eyes. "Well, if you were in here, maybe I wouldn't be."

He caught his breath, shocked at her brazenness. He let the air out of his lungs slowly, trying to mask how that affected him but failing. His voice shook as he said, "I have a better view from out here."

She raised her eyebrow and said, "Is that so?" Before he could respond, she had set the phone down and slipped the sweater off of her shoulders. He bit his lip, hard, hard enough to draw blood if there had been blood anywhere but in his pants.

"Fuck, Karen," he whispered, but she hadn't retrieved the phone yet and couldn't hear him, which he was grateful for. She pulled the t-shirt up, slowly exposing the skin of her belly, waist, ribs, then before she exposed her breasts, she flipped around and turned her back to the window. She didn't stop pulling the shirt off, though, and he saw the bare skin of her back. He had to readjust the rifle because it was starting to slip out of his hands. "Jesus Christ, Karen," he gasped, watching her as she playfully looked over her shoulder at him.

She picked the phone up and said, "How's the view?"

He had to pace his breathing. He needed to focus. God, but she was so beautiful. "I'm out here trying to keep you safe," he said, trying to sound stern but failing.

"Oh," she said, feigning disappointment, "well, I guess I should put my shirt back on."

"Fuck," he whispered. "How many beers have you had?"

She considered, letting her head roll from side to side. "Three?"

He sighed, feeling ashamed and embarrassed; he said, "Put your shirt back on and drink some water."

She turned to the window, fully, covering herself with one hand and said, "I'm not doing this because I'm drunk, Frank." He could almost see her naked breasts, barely covered by her arm and hand. He closed his eyes and sat down, letting the rifle rest next to him. He pulled the thermos out of his bag and poured a cup. "Alright," he heard her say, "the shirt is back on."

He turned, suddenly, and looked at the window; she was holding out her arms, showing him the shirt was on. Then she pulled her sweater back on and sat down, holding the phone to her ear. He didn't know what to say; he'd disappointed her again. He saw it on her face. "I'll, uh, I'll be here all night," was all he said.

She sighed and said, "Okay." Then she hung up.

He drank his black coffee and continued watch the police instead of Karen. He looked up to make sure she was alright but he maintained his focus on the entrance and the area surrounding the building. Even after a good thirty minutes, his pants were still achingly tight and he _knew_ it would be a long night.

He looked up at her window and saw that the light was out, suddenly. He aimed the rifle and watched for any sign of movement and, after a moment, he saw her face alight by the blue light on her phone as she walked into the bedroom. His phone vibrated and he picked it up, seeing he had a text notification. It read: _All good. Night._

He yearned to cross the boundary, to forget the threats and the worry about all of the ways that this could go wrong, and just feel right for once. He knew that being with her would feel _right_. He had felt it when they were in his apartment, so close to taking that step that he could taste it, taste _her_ , and at the time, he hadn't felt afraid. Afterward, he did, of course; he worried it was too soon for both of them.

But he couldn't imagine that now. They had been through so much, even before he had returned to her life. They had both nearly died more than once; she had been in danger more than once because of him. But they had also spent more time together, doing ordinary things like eating dinner and talking, holding hands and kissing.

His phone began vibrating again, but this time it was a phone call. He still had the earpiece in and pressed the green button. "Hello?"

"Hi," she whispered, her voice breathy.

"Hey," he replied, "everything okay?"

"Yes," she said. "I want to know why you haven't come to see me in two weeks."

He chewed his lip, thinking about how to respond. "After your story went public, the cops were watching you," he explained.

"And Frank Castle has never snuck past the cops to get to anyone before," she replied, sarcastically. He sighed, looking at her window again; the room was still dark and he couldn't see the light of the phone. He wished he could see her. He didn't have an answer for her, not one that would both satisfy her and leave him free from embarrassment. "When this is all over," she said, "I want to… I want to stay at your apartment. For a few days, maybe a week."

He swallowed around a dry throat and asked, "Why?"

"You _know_ why," she said, seriously.

 _You want me. You need me. I want you. I need you._

He let that sink in and replied, "I know you weren't doing that because you were drunk." When she didn't answer, he hesitated; he wanted to tell her that he missed her so much it scared him, but he wouldn't. Not now.

She saw right through him, though; she knew he was nervous, shy even, about this aspect of their relationship. Every time they began to move toward it, he seemed to choke. They could have ignored David, ignored her e-mail, and ignored her boss' call, even. But he choked, his worry about that step interfering with his desires.

"I wanted to hear your voice," she said and he heard something that had his breath quickening. She had moaned, a quiet moan but it was there.

"What are you..?" he asked, but he knew. She moaned again, a little louder; she was touching herself. "Jesus Christ, Karen," he whispered and bit his tongue before he could ask her to turn the light on.

"I think about you when I do this," she whispered, then gasped and he slapped a hand over his own mouth to quiet the sounds that tried to escape. He swallowed and felt the tightness returning to his pants. She was breathing faster, her moans coming out with words: his name, but most swearing.

He wanted to touch himself too but he knew it was too much of a risk; if something happened, he couldn't be caught with his pants, _literally_ , down. But he wouldn't be any good to anyone if he couldn't run or shoot because his raging boner was too much of a distraction. He hadn't done this since he was a fucking teenager, but he started rubbing himself over his pants. He knew that it would be uncomfortable later, but right now, it was just enough pressure, just enough movement. He was so pent up from all of the times they had _almost_ gone that far, all of the times he had thought of her and not touched himself in the last two weeks, that he started to feel the tension in his gut pretty quickly. Her moans were helping, too; or not helping, depending on your view of things.

"Frank," she gasped and he gasped at the shock of his orgasm; he groaned, continuing to rub his hand over himself through the waves, whispering her name over and over. Then she moaned, a breathy and keening sound and it made him want to _see_ her, see the pleasure on her face, that much more.

His intuition about the discomfort had been spot on but he didn't care at the moment; he was leaning against the wall of the roof, trying to catch his breath. "Shit," he whispered, "I haven't come like that in years."

She laughed and said, "I've done it almost every night for a month."

He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall. He didn't know why, but he wanted to ask her 'why?' and hear her answer, listen as she told him how much she wanted him. So he did.

He could hear the smile in her voice as she said, "Think about it, Frank." Then the phone cut off.

He didn't have to think about it; he _knew_. Just like she knew.


	20. Waking Lions

_Author's Note: Hi all! I'm really proud of this chapter and would love feedback!_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 _I wanna stand up, a hundred feet tall_

 _'Cause fear will never lead my way._

 _I'm ready to run, a hundred mile stroll,_

 _I will never be the same._

 _I'm waking the lions in me._

The rest of the night was uneventful. The only thing worth noting was that the cops switched out around two in the morning. He made note of the new uniformed and undercover officers that arrived, taking mental pictures of their faces and body types. Two of them were men in their forties, one white and one black; two were women, both black; and the other two were younger white men, clearly pretty new to the game. He knew that any of them could be on the take, or all of them. None of them seemed very interested in entering the building as of yet, but Frank was patient. He didn't need to sleep; he never did much anyway and, even eight hours later, his coffee was still hot.

He knew that Karen was asleep; she didn't contact him with more teasing and he was glad about that. He knew his resolve had its limits and he was weak. As he watched through the scope, he recognized that each officer had a specific route that they walked; knowing this made him more vigilant. If he could discern their routines, anyone could. He checked his watch when he saw a jogger come out of Karen's building and begin his morning run; it was 5:20. He took his rifle apart and packing it in its case, then put the case in his duffle.

He passed out on his couch almost the moment that he had sat down. When he opened his eyes again, it was late afternoon. He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling grimy and hungry but not having enough attention to plan how to handle both. He pulled his clothes off as he walked to the bathroom, immediately starting the shower. He turned the light on and grabbed his toothbrush and then, while the water in the shower heated up, he brushed his teeth. Stepping into the spray of hot water revived him marginally but he knew he needed coffee.

Once he was clean, he prepared the coffee and hit the button. While it brewed, he returned to the bedroom and dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He could hear the coffee percolating as he walked back into the kitchen after grabbing his cell phone. He checked the messages and saw he had several texts from Karen. He smiled but he felt weak from not eating in nearly twenty-four hours, so he got turkey, cheese, and mustard out of the fridge and set them on the counter. He made two sandwiches, eating them in record time, and then poured a mug of coffee. While he took the first gulp, he read Karen's messages.

 _7:13 AM: I'm heading to work. Don't worry. I'm packing._

 _11:30 AM: I ordered my lunch in. Should I have the receptionist take the first bite?_

 _14:54 PM: The cops intercepted a messenger who had a package for me. They took it to bomb squad._

Bomb.

Bomb.

Bomb.

Frank's eye was twitching and he hit the call icon. She didn't answer and her voicemail message said to leave a message and she would call back. "Karen, it's me. Call me as soon as you can." He ended the call and downed the rest of his coffee before grabbing his leather jacket and the duffle and going out of the apartment.

He walked the normal route to her building and saw there were no cops in front of the building, but there was one undercover cop across the street. Frank recognized him from the first shift he had observed. This guy was young, maybe mid-twenties, definitely fresh out of the Academy; blond, with a stocky build, and blue eyes. Frank watched him as he walked to the front door and buzzed Karen's apartment, making sure that the cop was looking another direction. When there was no answer, he buzzed another one. After a moment, a woman's tired voice came on the intercom, "Hello?"

He said, "I locked myself out."

"What apartment?" He gave Karen's apartment number and said her last name. "Isn't she a woman? And single?" Tired, but still sharp.

"I'm on her protective detail," he said, trying to be personable. "You know, these whack-jobs are threatening her."

"I had heard…" she said, vaguely. The woman hesitated for only a moment longer, but he heard the buzzer and the door lock click, then he entered.

Fuck, if this was the security in Karen's building, he was surprised an attempt hadn't been made on her while she slept. He shook his head, angrily, imagining an assailant sweet-talking his way past the pathetic security, breaking into her place, and… He grit his teeth at the thought. He took the stairs, two at a time, until he got to her floor; he opened the door to exit the stairwell, but paused, listening for any footsteps. When he heard none for a few moments, he opened the door all the way and walked down the hall. When he reached her apartment, he looked both ways down the hall, then he set to picking the lock. It wasn't usually his style but if he kicked her door down, she'd have even _less_ security and he simply couldn't have that.

It took a while and he knew that time was precious. After an agonizingly slow process, he felt the bolt give and his pick turned. He looked down the hall again as he opened the door, entering slowly. Once inside, he turned the bolt on the lock again and then noticed two things in succession: firstly, he was not alone and, secondly, the person in the apartment was not Karen.

He only had enough time to throw his arms up to block the assailant's knife which was aimed for his face. He was wearing a black ski mask and a black long-sleeved shirt and pants. Frank reared back and head-butted the man, who staggered backward but caught himself, then rushed at Frank with the knife again, but this time aiming for his stomach. Frank was slammed against the door and he had both hands on the other man's wrist to keep the knife from entering his flesh. Using the door to hold himself up, he lifted his left leg and repelled the other man backward with his foot, then went on the offensive, launching at the assailant and punching him in the face twice, then hitting his gut over and over. The masked man grunted, holding his nose and leaning over a bit, backing away from Frank's fists. The mask was wet with blood and he thought he had broken this fucker's nose but he was coming at Frank again, knife slashing in the air. One swipe got lucky, finding purchase on his forearm; he shouted in pain but didn't have time to grip the wound because the masked man was still slashing. With one lucky second, he grabbed the man's wrist with his right hand and brought his left fist down on the man's forearm, hard, and he knew it was broken. The man screamed, dropping the knife and holding his arm against his chest but he wasn't down yet.

The masked man grabbed at something on his lower back and Frank felt sure it was a gun, but it was a larger bowie knife. He rushed at Frank and slashed at his mid-section while the other man moved backward, dodging the blade. But he hit the front door again and the masked man drew the blade back and tried to stab Frank in the stomach; once again, he caught his wrist but much too late; luckily he had pushed the blade to the side, so it cut into his skin above his hip. He screamed but grit his teeth against the pain; this was a flesh wound and it would bleed, but he would live. He _had to_ live. Once again, he reared his head back and head-butted the other man in the nose and he screamed, dropping the knife and cupping his, now, heavily bleeding nose; drops of blood fell to the floor through the mask. He kicked Frank in the side where his stab wound was and, while he was covering the wound with his hand and trying not to fall to the floor, the masked man ran to the window, slid it open and leapt across the small distance to the fire escape.

Frank followed, but when he reached the window, there was no sign of him. He kept pressure on the wound and went to Karen's bathroom; he turned the lights on before searching her medicine cabinet and the wooden vanity drawers for a first aid kit or even a sewing kit. He opened the bottom drawer of her vanity and found a bottle of alcohol, a small box of bandages, and even a small, plastic sewing kit. He pulled his shirt off, which proved to be exceptionally painful, and sat on the toilet, letting the garment fall to the white, tiled floor. He cleaned the wound with the alcohol, wincing and hissing at the burning sensation. He needed to check how deep it was; he figured he would need to stitch it but couldn't be sure. He used toilet paper to wipe the blood away, which was a wasted effort since it continued pouring from the gash. He rolled more toilet paper up and pressed it to his side, holding it there.

As he sat on her porcelain toilet with the cover down, he looked around her bathroom feeling guilty for the mess he was making with his blood. His breathing was heavy, still, from the mix of pain and adrenaline as well as the increased rage from the reality of this situation. If he had chosen _not_ to come here, if that tired woman had denied him entry, if he had gone to the roof instead – any of the scenarios in which he was not here before Karen led him to one inevitable conclusion: she'd be dead. Stabbed, possibly raped and tortured, beaten, then murdered.

And the son of a bitch who had been tasked to do it had _gotten away_. His eye was twitching at the thought, at the realization that she was still in danger. The cop on the street hadn't noticed a thing when whoever the fuck he was came into the building…or maybe he _had_ seen him. Maybe that cop was there to be lookout _for_ the assailant. The guy in the mask had been surprised by Frank; he had been lying in wait but when a man entered the apartment, he panicked. The blond cop was supposed to let him know when Karen got home but wouldn't have thought to tell him a man was entering.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket – a difficult task since the phone was in the pocket below his injury and he had to use the opposite hand to dig for it. He was happy to see it was not damaged as he pulled up Karen's phone number and called it. This time, it did not go to voicemail but she sounded guarded when she said, "Hello?"

"It's me," he said, his voice gruff from pain and rage.

"What's wrong?" She asked, immediately, but trying to keep her voice low.

"I, uh, came over to see you but, uh, someone was already here," he said, feeling a little lightheaded as the adrenaline abated. "He got me."

She understood almost immediately what he meant and said, "I'll be there soon."

"There was a younger cop outside; blond, built heavy," he said, "he's involved."

She was quiet for a moment and then said, "I'll be careful."

He hung up, looking down at the wound and seeing that the toilet paper was soaked with blood. He let it drop to the tile and grabbed the sewing kit, dousing a needle with alcohol and trying to thread it with shaking hands. He nearly succeeded more than once but he could hear the blood dripping on the floor and felt it soaking his jeans; the sound seemed to be getting louder. He gave up, setting the needle and thread back on the vanity and grabbing one of the bandages; he ripped the paper covering off and placed the cloth over the wound. He let his head roll backward, feeling dizzy, and he knew he needed to stay awake. He didn't think he'd lost that much blood but when he looked down, he saw a puddle; he also realized that his arm was bleeding too.

The last coherent thought he had was that he needed to clean this mess up, or Karen would think the wound was worse than it really was.


	21. Far From the Sun

_Author's Notes at BOTTOM**_

* * *

 _I will travel the distance in your eyes_

 _Interstellar, lightyears from you._

 _Supernova, we'll fuse when we collide_

 _Awaken in the light of all the stars aligned._

Frank remembered returning to consciousness several times but he had no idea how long he had been out. He knew that, mostly he was drug to awareness by intense pain as someone stitched up his side and cleaned the wound. Each time he became aware, he heard voices that he thought were women; he believed he had seen Karen but mostly, he was seeing a woman with dark hair and olive skin. He recognized her but wasn't capable of remembering from where. Then he would pass back out.

He was in the dark but heard two women talking. "He's coming around."

He heard heels against hard floor as someone approached, quickly. "Frank, can you hear me?" Karen asked.

He smiled, which shot some pain through his face, and tried to force his eyes open but he felt too exhausted. Finally he was able to open one eye but grunted with pain, letting it fall shut again. "Don't push it," the dark haired woman said; she wasn't wearing scrubs but he remembered that he had seen her here before. "Karen, he'll be okay."

"Thank you so much, Claire," she replied, her voice joyful as she stopped by the bed and took Frank's hand for a moment, looking over the battered knuckles.

"Yeah, well," Claire replied, her voice unhappy, "you do know who that is, don't you?"

"It's a long story," was all Karen said, releasing his hand as she walked toward the other woman.

"And does anyone else know he's alive?" Their voices were becoming distant and Frank wondered if he was losing consciousness or if they were leaving the room.

Karen replied, "Only a few people."

He finally opened his eyes more and looked through the doorway, realizing he was in Karen's bed. He watched the two women as they exchanged a hug and Claire said, "I'm glad you trusted me."

"I know I've been… distant since Matt…" Karen said, quietly.

"It's not just you, girl," Claire said, pulling out of the hug. "We're all dealing in our own ways." With that, she looked at Frank lying on the bed and added, "Some in healthier ways than others."

Karen looked at his over her shoulder then looked at the other woman, "He's not what they say he is."

Her friend gave her a hard look and nodded, "He better do right by you." She grabbed a small duffle bag and put a brown coat on before turning to the door. "I'll come back and check on him." She opened the door and then paused, turning to Karen with a rueful smile. "No strenuous activity of _any_ kind." Then she was out the door.

Karen's eyes met Frank's and they both knew what she was referring to. He used his hands and his feet to push himself up on the bed and Karen rushed over. "Hey, hey, hey," she said, putting her hands on his bare shoulders to keep him from getting up. "You have to rest."

"It's just a flesh wound," he defended. "I'm fine."

She shook her head, "No, whatever cut you had some kind of anti-coagulant on it and it kept your blood from clotting." He looked down at his hip where there was a fresh, clean bandage covering the stab wound. "When I got here, I found you on the floor in the bathroom. There was blood _everywhere_ ," she had tears in her eyes as she remembered the scene.

"Hey," he said, reaching his hand up to cup her cheek, "I'm fine. How long was I out?"

"It's only been about fifteen hours, I think." She pressed into his palm and shut her eyes which caused the tears to fall. "I thought you were dead, Frank."

"I'm _not_ ," he said, taking her face in both hands and pulling her down to press his forehead against hers. "I'm right here and I'm gonna stay." She released a tense breath and put her own hands on his chest. He sighed into her touch but knew that they needed to get moving. Fifteen hours meant that it was the next morning and he could assume that the masked man believed that he had killed Frank with whatever was on that knife. "Karen," he whispered, "we can't stay here."

She opened her eyes and cocked her head, asking, "Why not?"

"I think that cop I saw yesterday," he said, reminding her of his vague statement on the phone. "I think he was watching for you so he could give the guy who attacked me a head's up."

He knew she wouldn't argue; he knew she trusted him. She just said, "Okay," and got up, grabbing a bag out of her closet and packing clothes and other necessities.

Slowly and painfully, Frank maneuvered himself to a sitting positon and then stood up, weaving slightly from blood loss. He felt weak, but he was alive, which was how he needed to be so he could protect Karen. She walked back into the bedroom holding a piece of white clothing out to him. "It's just a big t-shirt I have but it should fit you."

He looked around and asked, "What happened to my shirt?"

"It was on the floor of the bathroom with you," was all she said, then resumed gathering her items and zipping up her duffle bag.

He began pulling the white shirt on with a lot of difficulty and Karen entered the room to assist him. She stepped close to him and grabbed the shirt from him, slipping the sleeve onto the arm above his injury, then pulled it over his head and he slipped his other arm into the shirt. Rather than moving away from him after the shirt was on, she stayed put and let her hands rest on his chest. He bit his lip and reached up to cup her cheeks, leaning in to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her against his body, then gasped and she yanked away.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, lifting the t-shirt to check the bandage, but there was no blood.

"I'm fine," he said, taking her hands. "We need to get moving."

She nodded and grabbed the duffle she had packed, then she grabbed the bag he had brought. He started to argue but she brushed it off, saying, "We don't have time to argue." He grabbed his jacket and nodded, sliding it on slowly. He went to the door first, unlocking it and peeking his head out to check the hall. He started to head to the stairwell, but Karen stopped him. "We should go out the back way."

"There's a back?" He asked.

"Sort of," she said, beginning to walk back toward the elevators. "We'll go up to the roof and down the back fire escape."

They took the elevator to the top floor and then she led him to a metal service door. It was locked, but Frank pulled a knife out of his duffle and pried the door open. Though the scraping was somewhat loud, there was no alarm sound that came on when the door burst open. They took the service stairs to the roof and Karen took his hand to lead him to the rear of the building.

Once again, Frank went first and it was somewhat slow-going; he could tell that Karen wanted to protest but she didn't. Even though he still felt somewhat woozy, he remained vigilant as they went down. At the bottom, he unhooked the ladder to allow it to slide down and then he started climbing to the alley floor. He reached up for the duffle bags and Karen looked hesitant for a moment before slowly lowering them down to him. As he took hold, she turned and began to climb down the ladder; under other circumstances, watching her ass in that tight skirt would have been exciting, but not now.

She took the bags from him and said, "We can't walk to your place. Let me get a cab."

He shook his head and said, "No, I'll hail it. You stay in the alley to avoid being seen." She considered for a moment before nodding in agreement, then they walked to the mouth of the alley and Karen paused just inside while Frank stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and put his arm up. Even stretching the arm opposite his wound was a painful process but he had to do it. He glanced back at Karen every few seconds to make sure she wasn't in danger of being grabbed. He looked at the street and saw a cab slowly pulling to the curb and he looked back to tell her, but something caught his eye: a man, black hair with a fancy coat, smoking a cigarette and standing in the alley. Frank couldn't get a clear look at his face but he knew the man was staring at her. "Karen, get out here," he yelled and she ran without hesitation. The cab pulled up to them and Frank yanked the door open, allowing her to slide in first, as he kept his eyes on the man.

Once inside, he gave the driver the address of a coffee shop that was a few blocks from his apartment but he didn't want them to be followed directly to his place. "What happened?" She asked, huffing a little from the fear and exertion of the last fifteen minutes.

"I saw someone," he said, looking out the rear windshield of the cab.

She said nothing more, only reached out and took his hand in hers. He kept an eye out the back and she watched the front as they drove. It only took a few minutes to get to the café, even in the traffic, and Frank handed Karen a knit cap to pile her hair up in. She did it without question and they exited the taxi after he paid the driver. She pulled her coat off and rolled it up, shoving it into her duffle and they walked speedily to his apartment building. Her 'disguise' was haphazard but probably just good enough that they wouldn't be spotted immediately. For his part, Frank pulled his hood up and took his duffle bag, ignoring her protests and the stabbing pain he felt from lifting the heavy items inside.

When they entered his place, he set the bag down immediately and slid his coat off of his shoulders. He looked down and saw no blood on the shirt but when he lifted it, the bandage was wet with it. He cursed under his breath and walked, unevenly, to his bathroom to grab a new bandage. Karen followed, dropping the hat on her way. She checked the bandage and he pointed to the cupboard under his bathroom sink; she opened it, finding three large first aid kits and other medical supplies. She grabbed a bottle of alcohol and a large bandage as he pulled the other one off. She poured the alcohol over some toilet paper and cleaned the stitches off, before applying a clean bandage to the wound. She put his arm around her shoulder and helped him stand up, walking him to his bedroom.

"I can't go to sleep," he protested in a whisper.

"You're no good to me if you can barely stand," she said as they reached his bed.

He sat on the edge and sighed and pulled his boots off, then lay back on the pillows on his uninjured side. She began walking away but he reached out and grabbed her hand. She turned back to look at him and he said, "Karen, will you stay?" His voice was a whisper but there were many layers to it and she could hear them all.

She smiled, kicking her own shoes off; she laid down with her back pressed against his chest and he reached out to take her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and pressing them against her belly. He was barely conscious when he heard her whisper, "Always with you, Frank."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I love these moments when they are together. It warms my heart. :) I hope you enjoyed!_


	22. Starlight

_Say the word and I'll be running back to find you._

 _A thousand armies won't stop me; I'll break through._

 _I'll soar the endless skies for only one sight_

 _Of your starlight._

* * *

 _Karen, will you stay?_

 _Always with you, Frank._

 _Karen, stay._

 _Always, Frank._

He came to awareness, briefly, in the total darkness of early morning. He wasn't under any blankets but he felt so warm, which he realized was because his arms were wrapped around a body. Karen. He pulled her tighter against him and listened to the sound of her breathing, smelled her shampoo, and felt her soft hair. This was the most peaceful he had been in longer than he could remember. Some part of his mind was also aware of the fact that Karen fucking Page, nose for trouble, was in The Punisher's bed; but it was a vague awareness, clouded by sleep. It was in this way that he drifted back to oblivion.

When he woke again, Karen was still sleeping; there was a blue quality to the light the was entering his window, and he checked the clock: _5:37_. He kissed her bare shoulder and realized that she had changed her clothes at some point; she was no longer wearing her skirt and blouse, she had changed into some grey flannel pajama bottoms and a purple tank top. She was still pressed against him as she had been the night before.

He slowly and carefully slipped away from her, realizing as the cold hit his own bare skin, that he was no longer wearing the shirt he had borrowed from her. He grabbed the blanket and draped it over her; he watched to make sure she did not stir. Then he crept to his dresser, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and some new briefs. He walked into the bathroom, making sure to shut the door before he turned the light on. He grabbed a wash cloth from his cupboard and started the hot water in the sink. He pulled his blood stained jeans and briefs off; looking in the large bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth, he noticed that the blood had dried on his hip and thigh. He started the shower and waited for the water to warm up before getting in. He wet the cloth in the water and added soap, scrubbing the blood-stained areas as well as the rest of his body. He did his best to avoid getting the bandage wet but wasn't entirely successful. When he got out, he pulled the wet dressing off and checked the stitches before he put another one on.

He dressed and slipped out of the bathroom, trying not wake Karen as he grabbed a blue t-shirt out of the drawer and a pair of socks. Before he left the room, he remembered his boots and picked them up as well. He knew he had nothing to make her for breakfast, so he pulled the socks and shoes on, slipped the t-shirt on over his head and grabbed his coat. As he slipped it on, he noticed that the pain was not as intense as it had been yesterday. He pulled the hood up and stepped out of the apartment, making his way down the stairs and out the front door. Once he stepped onto the sidewalk, he turned left and walked a couple of blocks to a small café. He had seen it several times but had never gone inside; the designs on the windows were ornate and the lights inside always glowed yellow. The lights were on and he checked the place through the windows before he went inside. The young barista looked bored at 5:45 on a Saturday morning, so he approached the counter and asked the kid what he would recommend.

"Well, I'd suggest a _Bianco_. You can add any flavor," he said, smiling brightly. He had black hair and a dark complexion; Frank pegged him as being of Iranian descent. His name tag read _Rahim_.

"I'll take a large one of those and a large black coffee," Frank replied. He moved to the case of pastries and pointed to a few different options, then sat at a table in the back of the restaurant to wait. His back was to the corner which allowed him to watch the counter, the barista, and the entrance easily. He kept his eyes on the barista for a moment because the kid was moving in a flurry, steaming milk and making espresso shots then moving to the case and grabbing the pastries.

When Rahim set the pastry box on the counter, Frank stood and walked back to the counter to pay for the items. The boy placed two insulated paper cups on the counter with cardboard sleeves on them. He had marked "Vanilla _Bianco_ " in red ink on one cup and "B" on the other. He totaled the items and Frank paid cash, saying to keep the change as he grabbed one cup and set the box on his arm, then grabbed the other.

"Thank you," the kid called as he left the café.

When he returned to the apartment, it was just after six. He set the box and one drink down on the ground to unlock the door, then he picked them back up and stepped inside. He looked through the door and saw that she was still asleep. He set the cups and box on the counter, then removed his boots and coat; he hung the coat up near the door. He stepped into the bathroom and collected his discarded clothing to put it in the clothes hamper. He went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Karen's sleeping form; she had rolled onto her back and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. He lay down alongside her and planted a small kiss on her cheek and smiled when she made a sound, like a contented sigh.

He remained there, lying next to her with his lips within inches of her face. He whispered, "Karen," and she stirred slightly. He smiled wider and said, "I have coffee for you."

Her eyes began to open and she smiled back at him. "Hi," she said, stretching her arms.

"Hey," he said, reaching up to tuck some hair behind her ear. "You hungry?"

She nodded and sat up, saying, "Let me go to the bathroom and then I'll meet you out there." She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door.

Frank went back into the kitchen and took the lid off of his cup before taking a long drink. He considered the flavor of the coffee, deciding that he liked it, and took another. When she came out of the bathroom, Frank noticed that she had washed her face and brushed her hair. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed the cup he gestured to; she, too, pulled the lid off before taking a drink.

She smiled after tasting it. "This isn't bad diner coffee," she teased.

He chuckled and looked over at the box of pastries, then said, "I wasn't sure what to get you."

She walked over to the box and opened it, smiling. "You have good instincts," she said and grabbed two plates from his cupboard. She grabbed a blueberry scone for herself, then took it and her coffee to his table. He couldn't stop smiling at her; watching her do something so normal with him was unreal. He took his plate and grabbed a cinnamon roll, then followed her to the table. She held up the scone and said, "Nice choice, Frank."

He bit the inside of his check to try to erase the grin he had, but it was a wasted effort. He couldn't get rid of it. He felt a powerful emotion in his chest and it was growing. Every moment that he stared at her, each time their eyes met, every smile she gave him made him burn. His skin was _hot_ and he knew it wasn't from a fever. Well, not an illness. She finished her scone and drank her coffee. He seemed to have forgotten that he had even grabbed himself something to eat, but then he heard his stomach give a growl. She laughed and stood to get a second scone from the box. His choice was a bit messier than hers, so he followed behind her to the kitchen for a fork. Karen watched him with interest and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing, that this morning was different. This morning felt like a _morning after_ morning, even though all they had done was sleep. This morning seemed ordinary.

But they weren't ordinary people, he knew; she was in danger and he was The Punisher. His only goal was to keep her safe. But it was difficult to maintain that mentality when she was walking around his apartment with her long hair down and her blue eyes sparkling.

Their eyes met and he recognized the same feeling he had spreading though him: desire. He bit his lip and grabbed a fork, quickly returning to his chair. He downed his coffee and shoveled the cinnamon roll into his mouth. At some point, she had rejoined him at the table but her plate was empty.

"You didn't want another one?" He asked, around a mouthful.

She laughed and shook her head. "I'm not in the mood for more food."

He felt his mouth drop and he knew he wasn't either. He grabbed their plates and went to the sink. She was behind him immediately, with her hands on his back; she was sliding them from his shoulders to his lower back, feeling the way his muscles moved beneath his skin. He hadn't even turned the water on to wash the plates. He spun around, his left hand cupping her head and the other on her hip as their lips met. She gripped his shirt and pulled him, slamming their bodies together in the way he clearly enjoyed. She turned her head to deepen the kiss and Frank _knew_ this would not end like the other times: there were no phones, no visitors, no interruptions that could stop them.

She moved her hands up and he felt her nails on the skin below the neckline of his shirt and he groaned, gripping her tighter. He worried she would bruise but he didn't stop. The soft feel of her pajamas, the warmth of her skin, and the feel of her breath were all intoxicating. The world was spinning but she felt so good pressed against him. Her hands moved down to the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath to feel his abdomen and chest as she had before. He moved his right hand up and slid it under her shirt, too, sliding up the smooth skin of her back; she wasn't wearing a bra. He heard _and_ felt her gasp but she couldn't decide if she wanted to press into the hand or into the kiss.

She slid one hand down from his chest, over his belly, to his pants and slipped it inside of them, trailing the pads of her fingers along his hipbone. It was just a hint of her intention, a promise of her goal. He felt himself pulling her harder against him, spinning them to press her against the counter, but the move made her hand shift and he lost the sensation. He wanted to whine at the loss, but he stopped himself.

The kiss was a little wet, a little sloppy, but he didn't care and she didn't seem to either. Her hand moved to the spot it had been, sliding her fingers down along the curve of his hip, and he was already achingly hard. He grabbed her thighs and lifted her but didn't set her on the counter; instead, he walked them to the bedroom again.

He laid her down on the bed, only breaking the kiss long enough to crawl on the bed and kneel between her thighs. Her fingers slid into his hair and she pulled him, gently, back to her mouth. He laid his body on hers, pressing his length into her thigh and both of them moaned. She grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up; when he lifted his arms, the pain made itself known but he tried not to let her see.

He knew she did; he saw a flash of doubt, of regret, pass her features but he went back to kissing her and she didn't stop him. She allowed her hands to roam over his torso, feeling all of the scars on his chest and abdomen before sliding over his back. His skin was a roadmap of pain and misery but she could traverse it; she knew how.

He broke away from her mouth and began kissing along her jaw and down her neck, pausing to bite and lick the skin over her pulse. He sucked on the skin over her collar bone and she threw her head back, digging her nails into his shoulder blades. He wanted to keep exploring that spot but also wanted to find others; he chose to move on. He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, looking down over her body as he ran his hands up and down her arms. His breath was coming out hot and fast and so was hers; when she breathed in, he could see her breasts under her shirt as it lifted. He was hesitating and he knew it; pausing to wait and see if she would stop him. He slid his hands down to the hem of her shirt, slipping his fingers just underneath the fabric of the tank top, silently asking the question.

"Take it off."

* * *

Author's Note: So I felt guilty and wrote this naughty bit because I _may_ not be able to update for a while. We're moving and the next few evenings and over the holiday weekend, we'll be moving in. Forgive me!


	23. Let Me Feel You in My Hands

_Author's Note: Moving went well and your patience will be rewarded! :)_

* * *

 _Let me take a step towards you,_

 _Let me feel you in my hands,_

 _Let me cross this line_

 _And show you where it leads._

Her shirt was gone, tossed somewhere, forgotten. Frank's lips and hands were on her breasts and her hands were in his hair. With each swipe of his tongue, she gasped; with each movement of his thumb over her nipple, she groaned; with each movement of his hips against her, she cried out. "Frank," she gripped his hair tighter as his erection pressed into her core and he released her nipple to press his lips against hers.

Feeling her bare skin pressed against his was one of the most incredible experiences of his life. She brought her legs up to wrap around his hips and he squeezed her thighs as he moved against her. He groaned and pulled back, biting his lip and sliding his left hand under the waistband of her pants and into her panties. His finger slipped over her hair and between her folds and they moaned together when he felt her. He used his thumb to rub her clit in a circular motion which caused her to throw her head back. She began pushing at the waistband of her pants; she met his eyes and they were wild, he thought, desperate.

He pulled his hand out and grabbed the fabric, sliding it down her hips and thighs, revealing her entire body to him. The pants and panties were tossed somewhere, like the shirt, and he knelt on the floor, pulling her hips to the edge of the bed. She gasped, sitting up on her elbows to watch him as he spread her legs and leaned in, licking along her folds and pausing on her clit. He groaned at his first taste of her. She bit her lip so hard that it turned white and she gripped the blanket in her fists, causing them to take on a similar coloring. He repeated the same motion over and over, using his fingers to spread her lips wide, easing his access to her most sensitive spot.

It took barely any time at all; her orgasm had been pent up from weeks of dancing around it, of leading up to this moment; months of waiting. He ran his tongue around her clit in smooth, quick circles, moaning at the taste and groaning at the site of her breasts moving quickly with her breath. But he pushed her over the edge when he slid two fingers inside her and crooked them, as if begging her to come closer. Her thighs gripped him and she cried out, throwing her head back with the force of it.

He heard her whispering but couldn't quite make it out; it sounded like "That was the most fucking amazing… Jesus Christ, fucking shit…" and other curse words, more blasphemy. He smiled and kissed her inner thigh; he started at her knee and moved toward her core again. He could have sworn he heard her say, "Fuck again, more" but he wasn't sure. He nearly reached the apex of her thighs before moving to the other thigh and kissing back down toward her knee. She tried to reach for him but missed by a few centimeters; her voice was not lost on him this time, however. "Please," she said, though her voice was just above a whisper.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet," he replied as his hands slid up her thighs. "I've been wanting to do this," he whispered and pulled her legs over his shoulders. "Wanting this so fucking much." He returned to his position, pressing his tongue between her folds and slipping it inside of her. She jerked her hips against him and gasped out an apology but he didn't care. He pulled back and slid two fingers inside of her, pressing them against the spot she had enjoyed before, then he used his thumb to rub circles on her clit and her thighs clenched as she moaned and gasped.

"Frank," she moaned and her breath was coming in faster, causing her breasts to heave.

"Again," he whispered, "for me, Karen, again."

She nodded, quickly; her eyes were shut tight as if what was happening was too much, too good, too _everything_. When she climaxed, her body clenched his hand for a moment but he continued his movements. She cried out, said his name; she gripped the bed until her arms shook. Then she, and her entire body, released. He smiled, kissing her thigh again and sat back on his knees.

He thought for a moment that she would fall asleep but then she was alert, her eyes on him and her hands grabbing his face. She was kissing him, tasting herself, and sliding onto the floor with him, straddling his lap. He grabbed her thighs again and kissed her with everything he had; he knew her core was leaving traces of moisture on his sweatpants and he didn't give a shit.

She pulled back and he asked, "Do you want to keep going?" She nodded, smiling at him. Then she was standing up and pulling him to his feet; she began pushing his pants down and he let her push them to his thighs before he took over and they pooled around his feet. She looked over his erection, having sprung free from his briefs, and she ran her fingers over the tip and he kissed her, hissing at the contact as she wrapped her hand around his length. He bit her lip and gripped her thighs, lifting her again and sitting on the edge of the bed with her straddling his lap. She had released him when he lifted her into the air again and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back in earnest.

She removed one arm and ran it down his chest and abdomen. Her fingers wrapped around him again and he gasped, "Fuck, Karen," when she moved forward on his lap, her hand holding his erection and rubbing him against her wet folds. He gripped her hips, desperate to keep control of himself, but he was losing it. Then he clenched his jaw when he felt her pressing down onto his erection – her wet folds enveloping him and he bit her shoulder; his grip on her hips was too tight, too rough, but he couldn't release at all. "Fuck, Karen, fuck," he gasped, feeling her bearing down harder. It was overwhelming, the way she felt, her heat, her wetness, the silky, smooth flesh surrounding his erection. Then she was seated on his lap and breathing fast and hard, her chest rising to meet his eyes.

"Fuck, Frank," she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders as she allowed herself to adjust to him. He had never considered himself to be more than average in size but, _fuck_ , she was tight around him. Then she moved, flexing her thighs and lifting her body up then bearing down on him again. He gripped her hips harder, desperately trying to keep her still. It _had_ been a long time, he realized. But she wasn't listening to him, wasn't paying heed to his silent warning, and she was moving again.

"Fuck," he bit out as she moved her hips harder, grinding into him.

Then she put her hands on his chest and pushed him down on the bed and he was reminded of his dream, the dream he had when he was dying. But this was real and it was _incredible_. She was hot and smooth and wet; her body gripped him as she moved, lifting herself up on her thighs and dropping down, hard and fast. He growled, low and heavy, then he jerked up, gripping her hips and flipping them over. He slipped out of her heat and she gasped at the shock and moaned when he slid back inside of her. He leaned over her and gripped her legs over his forearms, grabbing her knees and using the leverage to pound into her.

The shift in angle, the drastic change, and the look in his eyes – desperate, predatory – had her moaning and gasping. "Frank!"

He slammed into her, harder, feeling himself getting close, too close. "Karen," he groaned, keeping his pace and rhythm up.

She drug her nails down his chest and whispered, "For me, Frank." And he couldn't hold back, he couldn't stop, couldn't keep from pouring himself into her – his pain, his fear, his rage, his happiness, and his love. He growled, pounding into her heat once, twice, and he whispered, "I love you."

* * *

 _The move went well and we finally got our internet set up! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I spent a LOOOONG time writing and rewriting it, over and over. I busted this out last night and I think it's far and away better than the other attempts I made. Let me know what you think!_


	24. Just Feel All The Love I'm Giving You

_Author's Note: Hi! I'm so so so sorry for how long this took. I wrote and re-wrote and re-re-wrote this. But now, I'm both sad and happy to say, this is just **smut**_ _. This does not further the plot one bit._

 _But I'm cool with that. :)_

* * *

 _I feel so new_

 _Haven't you heard?_

 _I was the lonesome rider,_

 _Now the lonesome rider is home._

They were lying on their sides, facing one another, in silence. The silence wasn't regretful or shameful; if anything, it was thoughtful. Frank had said those words and, while he had known the truth for months, he had never said anything about it to Karen or anyone. She hadn't said anything either and, still, she didn't say them after he had. He didn't expect her to but, honestly, he hadn't expected to say it himself. He didn't wish to take it back, though; he didn't regret letting the words out. It felt fitting that in order to get to this moment, she needed to strip him down completely, expose his wounds, and make him vulnerable before he could truly open that door.

He had never anticipated falling in love again. He really hadn't thought he _could_ ; he was a one-and-done man, married, then widowed. But here he was, avenged; killed; resurrected; made _new_. Karen had made him new again. He was baptized in blood but made clean by the icy blue of her eyes and he could be a new man now. He could be Frank and the Punisher molded together; something new and terrible, but also something soft and recognizable. She had helped him do that. Karen fucking Page had seen all of his pieces, all those broken, shattered fragments and she gathered them, bit by bit. It took a long time but she did; she didn't, however, glue him back together, no, he had the do that himself. But she collected those pieces and gave them back to him. Pieces he had forgotten; pieces he wanted to forget; pieces he had thought he'd lost forever. She found them all.

The final piece that she gave to him was his heart. It hadn't been dead and black, or gray, ashen, and lifeless; it was _alive_ in her hands. It was beating and pumping, fluttering, growing hot. He felt it right now, where her left hand was pressed against his chest.

She felt it too. Her hand was covering scars, cuts, bruises, scrapes. The scars there had been close ones, nearly fatal, but they never struck their target. He shut his eyes against the sharp feeling of the memories coming to him; standing in the dark, alone. He felt the vague pain from his recent wound but it wasn't bleeding and the bandage was still in place. Karen's other hand moved up to cup his cheek and he opened his eyes again, meeting hers.

"You okay?" She asked, a small crease between her brows.

He nodded, turning his head to kiss her palm, "More than okay."

She smiled at that; her bright blue eyes felt like they were freezing him in ice but melting him in the hottest flames. He shivered and she asked, "Are you cold?"

He didn't know how to answer that. He felt chilly, lying naked on the bed with her, on top of the covers, but he also felt flushed and hot from the knowledge that he was lying naked with her on his bed. So, instead of answering, he scooted closer to her and tucked his head against her jaw; she wrapped her arm around him to hold him close. Their legs entwined and their feet were sticking off the edge of the bed, since they were lying across it.

Frank felt relaxed and comfortable and he realized that he was beginning to doze off. Her breathing was becoming slower, steadier, and he could tell that she, too, was falling asleep.

 _People that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it. People that get inside you and…and…and tear you apart, and make you feel like you're never gonna recover. Shit, I'd, I would chop my arm off right here, in this restaurant, just to feel that one more time for my wife. My old lady, she didn't just break my heart. She… she'd rip it out, she'd tear it apart, she'd step on that shit, feed it to a dog. I mean, she was ruthless. She brought the pain._

 _But I'll never feel that again._

 _I'll never feel that again._

 _Never feel that again._

 _Never again._

 _Karen._

His eyes flew open and he rolled over, realizing he was in bed; he also realized he was alone. His first thought was that he had dreamt the entire encounter, but as his brain became more aware, he heard the shower running. He sat up and checked the clock before he walked to the bathroom: _1:12_. He knocked on the door and she said, "Come in."

He hesitated only a moment before turning the knob and entering; the mirror was covered in mist and he only saw a blurry blob for his reflection as he entered. He approached the sliding shower door and could see, through the frosted glass, the outline of a woman. Karen. His Karen.

His girl.

He reached the edge of the shower and used the small indent in the glass that constituted the handle to slide the door open. He stepped into the spray as she stood to the side to make room for him. His shower was a stall but it was wide enough to fit them. Her hair was cascading over her shoulders but not covering her breasts; her eyes were on him; and she had pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

Then he was kissing her, pressing her back against the shower wall and the hot water was spraying them. Her lips were wet and his slid easily against them; his hands moved over her skin, completely bare. Her arms were around his neck and she pressed her body against his, obviously noticing his erection. He realized, then, that he had been hard since before he even entered the shower. His left hand moved down her back to grip the supple flesh of her ass and she groaned into his mouth. She pulled back and her hand gripped his erection, suddenly, before he had even realized her arm had left his neck. His hand left her backside and moved to the hot flesh between her thighs, finding her to be just as aroused as he was. He felt her lips and found her clit without much thought; he was rubbing circles around it, gently, with his thumb as she stroked him. He hadn't done this in _years_ , he thought; it reminded him of being a kid, an inexperienced and scared kid.

But he wasn't a kid anymore; he was a man.

He slid two fingers inside her, reveling in a silky smooth skin; the sudden change made Karen gasp and she gripped him tighter, momentarily. Then, she pushed his hand away and spun around, facing the shower wall. "Like this," she said and he didn't need to be told twice.

He gripped her hip with his left hand, leaving hints of her moisture on her skin. With his right hand, he gripped his erection to guide it as she pressed her ass against him. He nearly came from the sight of her; then he nearly came when he felt her heat and her wetness as he began to push inside of her. She pressed backward, gasping, and he gripped her hips with both hands to still her. He pulled back a bit and pushed forward again, this time pressing further inside her, groaning some himself. The change in position was amazing. He paused to acclimate himself again but she was impatient and pressed backward, rocking back on him. He couldn't help it, he groaned when he was fully inside her again.

He never wanted to leave. As evidenced by the sound she made, as well, he didn't think she wanted him to either. She looked at him over her shoulder and he pulled out, nearly all the way, and watched her face as he slammed back inside of her. Again and again and again and again and, each time, the sounds she made and the way she pushed back against him was all that grounded him to reality. He was sure that if he relaxed his grip on her hips, he'd float away with this sensation. It was heady and incredible.

She was incredible.

She was everything.

"I love you," he said again, but this time, it hadn't tumbled from his lips by accident; he _wanted_ to say it. He _wanted_ her to know.

"Frank," she gasped, grabbing his left hand and pulling it around her to press into her clit. He did what she asked; he applied pressure and rubbed in circles, as smoothly as he could, and he kept his pace up. But it was awkward and he couldn't keep the rhythm he knew she would need. He pulled out of her, regretfully, and spun her around. "Frank –" she began, but he was already falling to his knees, ignoring the water spraying his head, and pressing his lips to her core. He pulled her right leg over his shoulder and kept his grip on her hip with his right hand to help steady her. Before she was really aware of what he was doing, he was sucking her clit between his lips. Her hips were moving against his face but he barely noticed. Her hands were gripping his head and running through his wet hair; her eyes were closed and her mouth was open. He used his fingers again, rubbing them against that spot inside of her, the one she loved so much, and he heard her say, in a shaky voice, "I don't know…if I can again."

He pulled back and looked up at her, "Even if you don't come, I can still make you feel good." She nodded, desperately, and pushed his head back toward her core. He chuckled and whispered, "Yes, ma'am."

It turned out, though, that she wasn't giving herself enough credit. She came to a shuddering climax; her entire body tensed, especially the walls of her core, gripping his fingers. The look on her face was almost one of pain but the sounds weren't. Her hands gripped his hair painfully but he kept going, kept pleasing her, until he could tell that she was overly sensitive from the intensity of it.

Her leg shook with the effort of standing and he got up, ignoring the ache in his knees, and lifted her. He exited the shower and carried her back into the bedroom. He set her on the bed but she shook her head, standing and turning her back to him. "Like this," she whispered again, her voice hoarse and weak.

"Are you sure?" He asked, noting the unsteadiness in her knees.

She nodded and said "Frank, yes." She was resting her breasts against the bed as she pressed back against him.

He gripped her hips again, allowing her shaking legs to relax as he held her up and pressed the head against her. He groaned at the feel of her; the heat, the wetness, the feeling that was _all Karen_.

Then he was pushing in again and she was gripping the bedspread, gasping, arching her back. The sight nearly made him lose it, but he held on. Then he slid out and slammed back in and she cried out; he wanted to hear it again, so he repeated his motion. Again and again and again, over and over, and she was _so incredible_ , he couldn't hold back. He was already too close.

He meant to say her name but it came out in a low growl, as if Frank Castle couldn't speak and The Punisher spoke for him.

And Karen wanted them both.


	25. Hurricane

_Author's note: Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Fucking writer's block, everybody. This chapter is... it's forced and I'm sorry. I hope you enjoy it anyway!_

* * *

 _Your skin like a rose beneath my hand,_

 _And I can't keep from wondering_

 _Why nothing good can ever stay,_

 _Why faith feels like a fistful of sand._

He and Karen remained locked together for a time and he left open-mouthed kisses along her spine. The weakness in her legs seemed worse now, but she reached back and gripped his head, pulling him up her back and twisting her head around to meet his lips. It was soft; it wasn't feverish or desperate as their kisses had been before. He pulled back a little and felt himself slide out of her and she sighed into his mouth, turning her body to kiss him more fully. His hands were on her cheek and in her hair while she gripped his shoulders to keep herself standing.

The knowledge that he had done that for her, to her, was heavy and filled him with a primitive kind of pride. It had been _years_ but he could still satisfy his girl. Finally, she released him and pulled back, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was grinning when he offered to help her to the bathroom.

They finished their shower together and dressed. Frank pulled on blue jeans and a white t-shirt, as well as socks and his hoodie. Karen pulled on a pair of jeans, herself, and a gray t-shirt under a black cardigan but left her feet bare. He followed her into the living room, where she sat on the couch and opened her laptop to review her notes on the story, with her papers spread over the coffee table still. He asked, "You hungry?"

She smiled and said, "Oh my God, yes. Takeout?"

Frank nodded and pulled out his cell phone and ordered Chinese takeout. He gave them his address and Pete's name, then he stood in his kitchen. This was normal, he knew it was, but something gnawed at him now. They had sex – great sex, he thought – and it seemed that they were both… acting as if it hadn't happened.

It seemed that there were a few things that were being ignored right then. When he first told her that he loved her, she held him and didn't say a word for a long time; so long, in fact, that he fell asleep. He hadn't expected her to say it back if she wasn't ready.

The second time, he released her and felt himself slide from her heat; she turned around to look at him and he truly believed that she would say it. But she didn't. She smiled and kissed him, softly, and led him back to the shower. As he washed her body, he kissed her skin and held her in his arms under the spray of warm water. She held him too and he thought, maybe, she would say it then. He pulled back to see her eyes and he knew she had things that she wanted to say.

But she didn't.

And at that moment, she was sitting on his couch, working. He knew that the _reason_ she was here, the reason she had stayed here was because she was working and in danger. He knew that the reason she was on her laptop was because she was being stalked and, two days ago, someone tried to kill her. He needed to get his head in the game because her safety was top priority; her safety was his goal.

It was mid-afternoon and they had spent most of the day _doing what he never thought he could_. Not just the sex – which was amazing. But, he had accepted his feelings and expressed love for her. Twice. He didn't want to examine how realistic it might be that Karen wouldn't ever love him back. He was the Punisher; he murdered, tortured, and destroyed. Love wasn't in any of those things. But it was always Karen who said that he was _not_ those things; he was _not a monster_. So, he had to consider that it was entirely plausible that she didn't think he could love her and accepted him for what he _could_ give her. This thought stirred another, more direct thought: It was different after he had said it, he thought. It should be different. But why did it feel like she was avoiding him?

He walked over to where she sat on the couch and sat down; she was typing away and the look in her eyes was the same focused stare that he had seen in the hospital and at the trial. He reached his hand out and touched her leg; she didn't register it at all. He tucked her hair behind her right ear; she didn't even flinch.

"Karen," he said, both to get her attention and to begin this _conversation_. She stilled for a moment and looked up at him. "Karen, I… I meant it," he said, "What I said. Before." The statement was simple but the content _definitely not_. "But I really, uh, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, or…"

She shook her head, setting the laptop down. "Frank, no," she said, taking his hands. The simple gesture shook him and he felt a smile tugging at his face, so he looked away. She was looking at their hands; she took a deep breath before she said, "I really never thought you _could_. I know that you… you care about me. I see it in your words and actions, how you build me up and _believe_ in me. I see it," she said. "I feel it." The subtext of that comment made his face heat up but he didn't move. "And I don't want you to think that I didn't _want_ you to say it because I _do_ , but…" she paused, hesitating to speak something that might hurt him.

But Karen Page is never afraid to bring the pain when she needs to.

"But Frank, it's okay to take your time," she said, her voice weak, "after your family." He met her eyes. "After Maria," she finished, but clamped her mouth shut when she saw his face change.

He wanted to get up, walk to the door, shove his feet into his boots, and leave.

He wanted to run.

But he didn't.

He took a breath.

"Karen, I know you're not her," he said, simply; his voice was harsh when the words came out, but he couldn't help that. Then he took another breath. "But I'm not the man I was with her," he added, "Not anymore."

He saw the tears in her eyes and she covered her mouth with one hand. "Oh, Frank," she whispered as they fell down her cheeks.

Then he realized the truth: Karen was _afraid_ that he would never move on. Karen was afraid that while he Punished and murdered and tortured, while he sought criminals, that he was _still_ avenging them.

That he would always be avenging them.

That he merely wanted to keep her safe out of a misguided need to correct his failure.

That she was a replacement, a do-over.

He knew that this fear kept her from expressing the feelings she had. He had seen the look in her eyes often; he believed that she loved him too. He remembered the look on her face when he'd said it the first time; she'd reached up and pulled him into her arms. She had _shown_ him in the best way she could at that moment. "Karen, I love _you_ ," he said but her hand remained over her lips. "You don't have to say it," he added. She watched him, nervously, tear streaks staining her face. "I want this," he said after a pause and reached up to wipe the tears away with his thumb. "I want this with you."

She dropped her hand and opened her mouth to speak when the door buzzer sounded. She jumped from shock and, honestly, Frank had forgotten they had even ordered food. He stood but bent to kiss her forehead before he walked toward the intercom. "Yeah?"

"Order for Castiglione?"

"Come on up," he said, hitting the button to unlock the door. He turned around and saw that Karen wasn't on the couch anymore, but walking toward the bedroom. "Hey –" he began but she interrupted.

"I've got to use the bathroom," she said.

He waited by the front door and leaned against the wall; his heart was pounding and there was a tense, fearful ache in his chest. He knew that he was vulnerable with her; he had armor once but it always seemed to fall away when she was near. People said it was a good thing to be vulnerable and open with your lovers, but for Frank, being afraid and defenseless were totally unnatural feelings.

He was sure he had dropped his armor with Maria and the kids but he also believed that it was that exposure that made him useless when they were in danger.

His thoughts were trailing when someone knocked at the door and Frank stepped forward to unlock it.

He should have checked the peephole first; black clothes, black mask, a fucking bouton across the face and the Punisher went down. He heard Karen's scream and tried to get up, but another masked fucker slammed a heavy boot into his head.

Out.

* * *

 _So, I'm sorry for how short it is, everybody. I was suddenly inspired today but I wasn't writing for this chapter, but further down the road, which is no help to us right now! Please let me know what you think!_


	26. Let the Sparks Fly

_Author's Note: See? I'm alive! This chapter was fun to write because it deals with the outside of their relationship. When they're sexing each other, we can ignore the outside world, but here, it's all we've got._

 _Please enjoy and let me know what you think!_

* * *

 _Let me take you into the light._

 _There's nowhere to hide,_

 _There's nothing but darkness left here._

 _Shake it off and let's take a ride_

 _'Cause heaven's not far away_

 _And I'm not gonna leave you here._

Frank was laughing at the story that his daughter was telling; her eyes were alight with the pleasure of it. Frank Jr. was pretending to not find it funny by commenting on how stupid it was. He turned to his son and gave him a fake punch on the arm, then said, "You guys want to get cotton candy, or what?"

They both smiled, brightly and said "Yes!" at the same time. His wife remained at the table while they went to the concessions; he turned to look at her but her hair was covering her face. It must have been a trick of the eyes but, in the sunlight, it looked golden. He shook himself and turned his attention back to the two ahead of him, saying "Slow down, slow down." But no matter what he said, they seemed to be moving faster into the crowd. "Lisa, Frank!" He called, pushing through the crowd that seemed to be thicker with more people pushing at him. He turned around to call to Maria but then he heard the gun cock.

Bang.

He turned back around, looking in the direction where Frank Jr. and Lisa had been running. Suddenly, the crowd was gone and he saw Lisa, lying on the ground covered in blood. She was still alive, gasping, and Frank Jr. was trying to reach her.

Bang.

Frank screamed as his son collapsed not far from her and when he finally reached them, Lisa's blood was a large, muddy mess around them. She was no longer gasping. Her eyes were looking at Frank, empty and cold. Junior was lying face down and when he tried to rolls his son over, he screamed at the sight of his son's face; the bullet had entered the back of his head and it removed much of the front of his skull. He couldn't even hear his own screams anymore, they'd become part of the silent background.

Bang.

Frank turned around and she was still sitting at the picnic table, perfectly still, as if she had no idea what was going on. He began running, screaming for her to get down; begging her to move, but she couldn't hear him. The bullet hit her in the throat and she flew backward, landing hard on the grass. She pressed her hands over her throat and he covered his own over them once he reached her.

"Shh, shh," he whispered, realizing that his face was wet with tears. "Fuck, help me!" He screamed, looking up and around. "Please, help me!" Silence, complete and utter silence.

"Fr-Frank," she gasped and he looked down just as he heard the final shot.

Bang.

Frank's body was thrown sideways; his hands were ripped from her neck but he landed on the ground facing her. Ignoring the instinct to keep her hands on her wound, she reached for him and he reached for her, still awake, despite the headshot. Her golden hair was soaked red and her bright, blue eyes were bloodshot and full of tears. He listened as she tried to breathe and it sounded like she was even trying to speak, but she was choking on her own blood; the damage to her airway causing blockages, but she continued to try.

He tried to beg her to stop; he tried to beg her to put her hands back and apply pressure. He tried to beg her not to die, not to leave him too.

But he had no control of his body anymore. He knew he was dying.

But, Goddamn it, the universe was going to make sure he stayed conscious long enough to watch Karen Page die. Her blood was pooling wide enough to reach him, even though she hadn't been able to do so with her hand. He reached out, once more to her hand, believing that he was seeing her reach for him too, but when he looked at her face again, he could tell that she was dead.

Her eyes were still on him.

 _Karen!_

He jerked awake, feeling a sharp pain in his head and across his cheekbone. He shook his head as if he could shake away the ache or the disorientation, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. "Karen," he said, quietly, pushing himself up. The images from his dream were seared into his mind, as if he had just watched his children gunned down again, just watched Karen die. He felt sick, remembering the sight of Lisa and Frank Jr. lying in the grass in Central Park, their small bodies limp and lifeless.

He remembered the image of Karen sitting at the picnic table, a part of the scene but somehow, separate. She was killed last but, from what he remembered of that day in the park, Maria had been shot first. He shook himself, feeling mounting pressure behind his eyes.

He stayed on his hands and knees and looked around; her computer, papers, and phone were gone, but her bag of clothes was lying where it had been. Whoever took her _knew_ what to take. He pushed himself up and went to his phone, dialing David's number.

While it rang, he checked the time; he'd been out for, maybe, forty minutes, which gave whoever took her that much of a head start. He reached the kitchen and laid his head in his hands, elbows sitting on his counter. "Hello –"

"David, they got her, they took Karen," Frank rambled out, quickly, panicked, dizzily.

"Wait, what?" He asked, shocked, then followed up. "Who? When?"

"Fuck, I don't know _who_. I need your help." Frank's voice was low. "I think it was forty minutes ago."

"You _think_?"

"They knocked me out, Lieberman!" He shouted, "I was caught off-guard. I was stupid, I didn't think they'd followed us."

"Frank you sound…" David trailed off, then said, "Okay, Frank, did they take her phone? Her computer?"

"Both, I think," he said. His head was killing him.

"Alright, I'll start looking," he said and hung up.

Frank went to the medicine cabinet and pulled out the Tylenol and took four, drinking water straight from the faucet. He went to his closet, pulling the metal box out and grabbing his Desert Eagle, his Kel Tec KSG shotgun, and his CZ Scorpion; he grabbed enough magazines to take on a small army and pulled on his armor. He slid the Desert Eagle in his shoulder holster and pulled his single-shoulder sling on to carry the rest. He pulled his boots on, attaching his Bowie knife to his ankle, and pulled his coat on, covering the weapons; he pulled the hood up and left the apartment.

The first place he would look was Karen's; if she had left information there, they may have gone back to search for it. If she was alive, they would keep her that way to ensure that all of the proof she had on them was destroyed.

Then, they'd kill her; then, she'd just be another witness, another victim, to disappear before she could testify.

That infuriated him.

The walk there was slow-going; his head was pounding and he wondered if he had a concussion. The light, even through the gay clouds, was bright enough to hurt his eyes, so he pulled the hood further up. Luckily, though, it was late-day light and would be dark soon.

Somehow, he made it to her block and watched the front of her building for a moment. He saw cops but not as many; they must have figured out that she was gone and left a couple of uniforms to see if she would return. He knew he couldn't get inside the building through the front unless someone left the building just as he approached. He couldn't afford to be stopped by the cops.

He turned around and went back to the alley that he and Karen had taken when they left her place. He pulled himself onto a dumpster to reach the ladder to scale the building. He wondered if he could get back in through the door on the roof, or if it was locked on the outside. He remembered that the masked attacker who had been inside her apartment had leapt out her window onto the fire escape, but when he had looked for him, he realized that section didn't lead to the street, only to the roof.

Once Frank reached the top, he crossed the gravel to the other ladder to begin climbing down to her window. He got to the level her apartment was on and slid along the wall toward her closed window, keeping one hand on the metal banister. He checked the window, quickly, noting that it wasn't locked but it was totally closed. He pulled a knife out and jammed the blade underneath it, then pushed the handle down to wrench the window upward. It only moved half of an inch, but it was enough to get a grip and push the rest of the way open.

After some maneuvering, he was able to step inside the apartment and shut the window again, turning the lock.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" A male voice asked, more shocked than angry.

Frank turned quickly, his hand pulling the Desert Eagle from under his arm and aiming it at a short, slightly pudgy man with blond hair and a nice suit. "Nelson," Frank said, lowering the weapon.

"Fuck, fuck, oh fuck," was all the other man said, his hands still in the air in surrender. "Did you… take her?"

Frank scoffed and said, "Yeah, then I came back to her apartment, through her window, to, uh, kidnap her stuff too."

Nelson considered that and said, while slowly letting his hands drop, "Okay, when you put it that way."

"Has anyone been in here?" Frank asked, cutting Foggy off before he could continue. "I mean, besides you."

The other man thought a moment, then said, "Just some cop."

"Man? Woman? Young or old?" His voice expressed ever-decreasing patience.

"Um, young man, white, with blond hair," Foggy stammered, still obviously terrified.

That caught his interest and Frank asked, "When?"

"Like a half-hour ago," he said, reaching into his pockets. "He was looking for some paperwork but I told him that he would need a warrant." Frank felt a bit more impressed with Foggy Nelson when he said this. "He left a card," he said, finally finding what he was searching for and handing it to Frank. He hesitated before he gestured to the card, asking, "This guy's in on it, too, right?"

"Yeah," he replied, looking at the name on the card and smiling. "I'll have a talk with him."

As he was moving to exit, Foggy asked, "Are you looking for her too?" There was something in his tone that made Frank stop.

"She was with me. I thought she'd be safe but they found us."

"They gave you that shiner?" Foggy asked, his head tilting as he looked at the bigger man's face.

"Thanks for this, Nelson," Frank said, ignoring the amused tone the smaller man had; he began heading toward the door.

"Please find her," he called; at that moment, Frank recognized the desperate tone in the other man's voice. So desperate, he'd turn to Frank Castle, the big, bad Punisher, for help.

Foggy knew that she was in danger. Frank was sure that, if Murdock were alive, Foggy could not have given a shit less about the Punisher or his feelings. But he turned and met Foggy's eyes before giving one curt nod, then he was out the door, heading to the roof.


	27. Without You

_Author's note: Hi all! PLEASE read this warning: this chapter is HEAVILY violent and features discussions of sexual violence and some pretty disturbing imagery. I had a hard time writing some of it, but I am very proud of this chapter. Forgive the graphic scenes and let me know what you think!_

* * *

 _Come back down,_

 _Save yourself._

 _I can't find my way to you_

 _And I can't bear to face the truth._

Frank hadn't done this in a long time. He had ceased all violence, murder, torture, and taken on a life of _after_ , but here he was, sitting on an uncomfortable chair across from a young, blond man with gray eyes. He could see in those eyes the secrets this boy kept, the secrets Frank needed. Once he had given the name to David, it had only been minutes before he knew everything there was to know about this man, this Cameron Willoughby, age 29. He had been with the NYPD for eighteen months and tried to make detective twice, but failed; however, somehow he was still making enough money to pay for his own apartment as well as an apartment for his aging mother. _Payouts_. Mob ties, probably.

That meant, though, that Karen's story about the law firm went deeper than just some pieces of shit who can't keep their hands to themselves. When Frank mentioned that to David, he replied "It makes so much sense." He, then, explained that the lead partner at the firm was the attorney for Don Rigoletto, an infamous mob boss that had been ousted by Fisk. But with The Kingpin in prison, other interested parties were trying to take over territory again.

The idea of a city filled with mobsters made Frank's blood pump faster and he remembered, vividly, all of the scum he had put down. He pulled his knife out and toyed with it, remembering the things he had done with it.

While these thoughts were flowing through Frank's mind, Cameron was watching him; he was bound to the chair and gagged, sweating heavily. His eyes flashed from Frank's face to his knife, then to the gun in his shoulder holster, and finally, to the skull on his body armor. This guy _knew_ who he was dealing with and he was afraid.

 _He should be_.

Frank stood and pulled his chair across the distance; the metal scraped along the floor, loudly. Once he was within a foot of the bound man, he resumed his seat and continued staring at those grey eyes. In a flash, Frank's arm moved and the knife was driven down between Cameron's legs, sticking itself into the seat of the chair. The younger man had screamed as the knife came down and now he glanced down at the blade, trying to scoot his balls away from the sharp edge that was pointed at them.

Frank reached up and yanked the gag out, but held onto it, tied around his neck, then pulled the other man's face closer. He stammered, "You – you know I'm a cop, right?"

Frank let out a chuckle and smiled just a bit, looking around the room. "Oh yeah, Cameron," he said, "I know who you are." He pulled the blade out of the chair and let his hand rest on the captive's leg. "Now, I'm going to introduce you to who _I am_."

"No, I already know –" then Cameron was screaming, cries of agony as The Punisher stabbed the blade into his thigh, cutting through the muscle and scraping the bone.

"This is how it's going to go," Frank began, calmly, "Tell me where they took Karen Page and I won't cut your fucking balls off."

The look of shock was wiped from his face and replaced by wincing when the blade was yanked out. Blood was pooling and dripping down his leg. "I don't, I don't know!" He said, his voice shaking.

Frank tightened his grip on the fabric around Cameron's neck, twisting it, pulling him closer, then he stabbed the knife into his right leg. "Try again," he said.

"I don't know, they didn't tell me what they would do once they had her!" That idea caught Frank off-guard. He believed she was still alive but the thought that _they had put their hands on her_ enraged him and he let out a loud, roaring growl, yanking the blade back out and stabbing it in the bound man's left leg again. His scream was cut off by Frank jamming the cloth gag back in place and sitting back. The knife stood upright, the blade barely visible it was so far in his leg.

His eye was twitching as he watched the other man cry, then begin screaming, then realize that help was not coming. The expression he made when he knew, when it dawned on him that he would probably die here, tortured to death over some woman for a reason he didn't know, was priceless. It was then, when the light was leaving his eyes that he began talking, or trying to, through the gag. Frank moved closer and took the fabric in his hand and yanked, scraping his lips and gums. "Talk," he said.

"They took me to a place once," he said, his voice quiet. His coloring was off; he had lost quite a bit of blood and the knife was still in his thigh. "A basement beneath a restaurant; they had girls there. Whores, I guess."

Frank twisted the fabric, cutting off his air supply; his eyes bulged and The Punisher stood up, bringing him with, limply. He was trying to put his feet out, but they were tied to the chair; his hands were jerking as well. "Where?"

It was then that those eyes saw into Frank Castle's soul; those eyes saw the things he had done, the things he would do, and Cameron knew he would die. "Lu-" he started but couldn't finish. The other man went back to his chair, slowly, allowing the air to rush into the blonde's lungs and he coughed and gasped. "Lucio's!" He said, tears falling from his bright red eyes, bloody from busted blood vessels.

Frank gripped the knife hilt and yanked it out, then used it to cut Cameron's binds and began pulling him to the exit. He had stolen the blonde's car when he took him, so he tossed him into the passenger seat and got into the driver's side. "Where?" He asked again, his tone the same – a calm voice with an edge of darkness, of promise.

"42nd and 10th," he said with his hoarse voice.

Frank started the car and began driving, letting the radio play oldies. It was dark out now and he was grateful for that – night was the best time to hunt vermin. When they reached the intersection, he parked on the street and looked over at Cameron; he was sweating heavily, blood staining his pants legs and his seat. Frank opened the driver's side door and went around the car, opening the passenger door. He imagined that the cop was possibly faking, that he'd jump into the driver's seat and try to make a run for it, but this guy was going nowhere. With absolutely no compassion for the other man's pain, Frank grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him out of the car, holding him up as he tried to get his feet under him.

"Please, just let me go," he begged, quietly.

Frank appeared to consider it, then shook his head and said, "No." Cameron began crying again and he almost felt bad for him – almost, but then he remembered that Karen was out there and he stepped close to him. "Where is this place?"

He continued weeping but pointed toward the alley nearby and they began walking – well walking and dragging. "They're gonna kill me," he cried. "Please let me go!"

They reached a metal door that led into a sub-level of the building and Frank tossed the bleeding man against it. "Open it," he said.

Suddenly, the cop was more awake, it seemed, as he got to his knees and began pulling the metal door open. Behind it was a set of stairs illuminated by red lights and Frank felt sick, knowing this was probably a forced prostitution ring. "You said you were here before," he said, pointing to the entry. "You get a girl that night?"

Cameron's eyes went wide and he immediately shook his head, "No, no, I didn't."

"Ah, come on," he said. "They brought you here when they offered the money, right?" His voice gave the impression of understanding, compassion.

The other man believed that impression. "Y-yeah, they did," he said.

"What was her name?" He even smiled when he asked, as if this was a fond memory to be recalled.

He looked confused and then anger overtook his features and he shouted, "I don't fucking know!"

At that moment, Frank reared back and kicked Cameron Willoughby backward with the bottom of his foot, hurling him down the stairs. He slammed into the cement floor, head first, as The Punisher began descending the stairs. Two doors opened in the basement, one on the left side and one on the right. Out of the door to his right, a large man with a shaved head and a beard, as well as tattoos and several piercings, wearing a crisp, black business suit and tie stepped into the hall. He was obviously the bouncer, but he had stepped away from door duty. From inside that room, Frank could hear a woman crying.

On the left, an older, smaller man with gray, well kempt hair, had stepped into the hall, pulling a robe around himself. Because of the red light, Frank couldn't be sure the color of the robe, but it looked like black satin. _Rich client._ Frank pulled his Desert Eagle from his shoulder holster and aimed it at the large man, firing a bullet through the suppressor and into his forehead at very close range. The older man had been standing slightly behind the bouncer and was splattered with brain tissue and blood. He screamed, turning to run but he had been in shock just long enough for Frank to reach him and get his hands around the older man's thin neck. He slammed the man's back against the old brick wall and pressed the barrel of the gun to his penis. "Where is Karen Page?" He asked.

The man was spluttering, trying to breathe against the pressure at his throat and trying to scoot his lower body away from the weapon. "She's not here, she's not here!"

"Tell me where," he said, pressing the suppressor harder against his balls.

"Nathaniel – " he gasped, reaching his hands up to grip Frank's wrist in a weak attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his larynx. "Nathaniel Thomas!"

Frank released him and the man fell to the floor, gasping. He turned and looked inside the room that this small man had exited and saw two women, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and bloody. Only one of them was screaming; the other one looked limp, either unconscious or dead. He looked down at the old man; he had seen where Frank's gaze had been and he was trying to crawl away.

The Punisher slammed his boot down on the man's ankle; he felt it splinter and the man began screaming for help. He aimed his gun at the man's head and pulled the trigger; his head fell limply to the cement floor, but the sound was not a hard sound; it was wet. He went into the room and knelt by the woman who was crying and screaming; he could see stab wounds in both women; cuts; tears that looked like whip lashes; and he saw loose teeth on the ground at his feet. The other woman had blood all around her mouth and nose; at this distance, he could see she wasn't breathing.

"Ma'am," he said, softly, to get her attention; the woman stopped screaming and began whimpering. "I'm going to untie you but I ask that you leave your blindfold on for now. I'll call an ambulance." She nodded and he pulled the gag from her mouth; she began whispering in a language he didn't understand, but sounded Russian. "Ma'am, do you speak English?"

She nodded and said, "Yes." Her voice was heavily accented.

"Was there another woman here? Her name is Karen Page."

She shook her head, "I don't know. I've been in here for… I don't know." He could see that she wasn't actively bleeding anywhere but some of her wounds looked as though they were infected. She had been down here for days, at least.

He nodded and asked, "Were there any women who came in and left quickly?"

She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Yes. When he was…pulling her teeth out, she fainted and I heard a woman's voice outside the door."

"Do you remember anything else about her or who brought her here?"

She thought for a moment and said, "I think that men brought her here. She was… fighting. She hurt one of them because he screamed but then, I heard a sound like… a hit and the other one complained that they would have to carry her."

The fact that Karen had still been fighting was good; even if they knocked her unconscious, she would keep fighting when she woke up. "Anything else?"

"That man," she said, suddenly, lurching forward. "That man said… a name. Thomas?"

"Yeah," Frank replied. "Nathaniel Thomas."

"They said that name, too. They said 'Thomas is waiting'. But then this one woke up and began screaming again," she began whimpering. "I have to get out of here!"

Frank used the knife to slash the bindings. "There's a woman across the hall. Get her out, too," he said before turning on his heel and walking out. He pulled out his cell phone once he was outside and dialed 911, reporting gun shots and women screaming outside Lucio's restaurant. The dispatcher tried to ask him his name, but he ended the call. Luckily, David had set it up so Frank's number never came across on caller ID.

Then, he dialed Lieberman's number and a tired voice answered after two rings. "Frank, what do you have?"

"I got a name."


	28. Believe

_Author's note: Hi! Okay, the violence continues! Enjoy!_

* * *

 _I'm picking sides_

 _And pulling the strings._

 _I'm living lies_

 _And shedding the skin._

 _I'm open wide_

 _And letting you in._

Frank was sitting in the dark, toying with his knife again. It had been hours since Karen was taken but he knew he was close. The seat he was on was soft and plush but it wasn't comfortable for him; it was one of those comforts that he had left behind in his family's home. He remembered the way the house had looked before it burned down; he remembered the toys, the photos on the walls, the way it had smelled so familiar and yet so alien. It was all gone now, except in his memories.

Like his family.

He shut his eyes and focused on breathing; this was the hard part for him, the waiting. All he could do was imagine the horrors Karen was experiencing and all he was doing was _sitting_ , waiting. But he knew that he was close to her, close to finding her. He heard a clicking sound, more than a dozen clicks in quick succession, as well as heavy breathing, and he realized it was the dog, trotting over to where he sat.

At first, when he broke in through the front door, Nathaniel's German shepherd had been aggressive toward Frank, barking, snarling, growling; but he had always had a way with dogs. She calmed down and approached him and let him pet her. He checked her collar and saw that her name was Mindy and he told her she was a 'good girl.' Then she went back to whatever she had been doing before he'd broken into the apartment of Nathaniel Thomas, senior law partner at Watson & Gayle.

After he gave David the name, it felt like mere seconds before he was at this point, but he knew it had been far longer. Too long. He reached down and gave Mindy more pets, then checked his watch. He stood up and left the living room, following the long hallway to a large, spacious bedroom; Mindy followed, panting happily, and he patted the bed for her to jump up. She hesitated and Frank knew she wasn't usually allowed on there, but he encouraged her again. She jumped up and sat down, awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. He pat her some more and said, "Stay." Then he backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him, and he returned to his spot in the living room. Everything in this apartment seemed to be white or silver with hard edges; there were even mirrors on part of the hallway ceiling.

"Frank, are you talking to that dog again?" David asked over the earpiece.

He ignored the question and said, "How much longer, Lieberman?"

"He's pulling up," he said. "From the camera feeds over the last few days, it looks like his guards follow him to his floor but don't enter the apartment."

"It's sound-proofed, too?"

"Yeah, I have the construction records here," he replied and Frank could hear the keys tapping through the phone.

Frank didn't need to wonder for what purpose Nathaniel Thomas had paid exorbitant amounts of money to ensure his neighbors heard nothing from his apartment. He had found the _dungeon_ rather quickly, locked with a simple doorknob. The room itself, wall-to-wall black with red lightbulbs illuminating knifes, power tools, canes, whips, and chains. Along the walls, there were metal bars which, he assumed, were used to tie Nathaniel's victims up while he tortured them. Frank looked over the implements; they were all very expensive-looking, surgical steel, and high quality leather. Adjacent to the door was a chest of drawers with padlocks on them; he found a set of bolt cutters on the wall featuring the tools and he used them to break each of the locks. Inside, he found hand cuffs, leather cuffs, zip ties, tape, and other means of immobilizing someone, including vials of heavy duty benzodiazepines and GHB. He found a needle in a different drawer and pulled some liquid from the vial.

Frank was sitting in the living room, the needle in his hand and his knife in the other. "He's brought other girls here," he said to Lieberman.

"Yeah, I have access to the cameras in the staff areas with a backup of at least six months. I've watched a few weeks' worth and I've counted four women that have been brought here."

"How do they go out?"

"Same way, days later," he replied, his voice giving away his disgust.

Frank nodded and said, "If you see them bringing Karen up, tell me."

"Are you sure he would have her brought here, Frank?" David was trying to stay positive about their chances of saving her, but he was just as aware as Frank was that she had been gone for nearly seven hours.

He clenched his jaw and said, calmly, " _When_ you see her, tell me."

There was a moment's pause and then David replied, "He's on that floor now."

He didn't reply and remained seated in the chair he was in. The apartment was set so that those who entered the front door stepped into the living room; the kitchen and hallway to the bedrooms was to the left. The chair he occupied was in the corner, facing toward the expanse of the apartment. He heard the key in the door and as it opened, the apartment remained bathed in darkness apart from where the hall light crept in. The alarm began beeping, sensing someone entering the home, and Nathaniel entered his pin on the keypad, effectively sealing himself inside with the Punisher. He didn't know that though; not yet.

Mindy was barking and he called to her, confused about where she could be. As he began walking toward the kitchen, Frank stood and stepped up behind him, jamming the needle into his throat. Nathaniel struggled, shouted, even screamed for a moment before he collapsed to the floor. He stared up at Frank and recognition overtook his features. He tried to get up but the effect of the drug was quick. That low of a dose wouldn't knock him out, but it would make him dizzy and sluggish; it would keep him from being able to run. He was finally able to look the man over. David had filled in the demographic information: Nathaniel Thomas, 43-years-old, height 5'9", weight 190. Looking down at the attorney, Frank noted the thick-rimmed glasses and straight edged nose; the brown hair that was obviously styled; the dark-gray business suit; and those eyes, so dark they looked black. Those eyes were blown wide and he tried to focus on his attacker; his breathing was heavy and ragged as he watched Frank slide the knife back in its sheath.

Frank wondered how many women this piece of shit had murdered; how long he had been doing it; if his disgusting harassment of female employees was part of it or just how he got off when he couldn't _hurt_ them. Then, Frank grinned at the idea that he would have all the time he wanted with this man.

He would do whatever it took, for however long, to find Karen.

Frank stepped around Nathaniel's squirming body and gripped the back of his shirt collar and jacket, dragging him across the white tiled floor to the hallway. He was trying to struggle but his efforts were slow and weak, and the way he was being pulled had cut off his airway. "Don't worry, Mr. Thomas," Frank said, dropping him haphazardly once he had reached the door to the dungeon. The man was coughing, gripping his raw throat. "We're going to use your tools, not mine."

"What – what do you want?" He rasped out, desperately.

Frank let the door swing open and he picked the man up once more by the shirt collar and drug him inside. "I'll tell you what I want," he said, walking them to the wall with the metal beams. He took the other man's wrists and held them up and used cable ties to lock them in place. "I want you to call whoever has Karen Page," he began as he stood and walked over to the tool wall again. He was considering his options as he said, "and have her brought here." He grabbed the bolt cutters again and walked back to where Nathaniel was positioned. "If you do, I won't rip off your toenails with the pliers you have over there." When he stood before him again, he could see the rage in the captive's eyes as he understood the situation.

Frank, patiently, waited to allow him to give his answer; when it was clear that he intended to decline the offer, he stepped forward and opened the jaws around Nathaniel's right ring finger. "Is that a no?"

Before the other man had a chance to respond, Frank slammed the jaws shut and he screamed. The finger flopped onto his gray slacks but he was yanking his body, trying to free himself. The Punisher walked back to where the chest of drawers stood and located a small mini-fridge. Inside, there were plastic bottles of water; Frank took one out and opened the cap, taking a long drink as he returned to where the captive struggled.

"Fuck you, fuck you!" He screamed and Frank saw who he truly was inside; his teeth were bared, his face was a snarl, and his dark eyes were like pools of ink. "That fucking whore will die! If I don't call them, they'll know something happened to me." Frank's eye twitched as he listened, taking another drink. "They'll shoot her fucking brains out."

He stepped over to Nathaniel and searched his jacket pockets until he located his cell phone. "You gotta call 'em, huh?" He asked, but the other man didn't speak. It was a smartphone that required a fingerprint, so Frank pocketed the phone and opened the jaws of the bolt cutters over Nathaniel's right index finger. When the handles clanked together, the captive man screamed again as blood from his hand was dripping all over his face and suit. Frank grabbed the finger and used it to unlock the phone; he opened up the recent calls and noted one unsaved number that dialed his phone twice just after Karen was taken. "Is it this one?" He asked, showing Nathaniel the screen; Frank read the number off so that Lieberman could hear it.

"Got it," he said and began typing.

"They're gonna fucking kill you," the man said, trying to stand but failing. "They'll be here to –" he clamped his mouth shut.

Frank smiled a bit and took another drink of water, realizing that benzos lower inhibitions in some cases. "They're bringing her here," he said and took another drink, emptying the bottle. He threw it, full force, at the lawyer's head and walked over to the tools and grabbed the pliers. "Tell me more, Nathaniel."

"Fuck you!" He growled.

He looked down at the tool and hesitated, before returning it and walking toward the wall of knives. When he had been here before, he had only taken a moment to look, but now he stood and considered them. Some were surgical implements, such as a bone saw and several sizes of scalpel; then there were generic knives with no special traits; and finally, there were knives of varying shapes and sizes. He saw a Karambit knife and he grabbed it, returning to where his lawyer was. "Alright, Thomas," he crouched down to meet his eyes and held up the curved blade. "Shall we continue?"

His arm moved so fast as it sliced a thin cut into Nathaniel's cheek, he reacted with both shock and pain when he realized what had happened. Frank repeated the motion on his left forearm, tearing a hole in his suit. He growled, clenching his jaw and staring the Punisher down. "You torture me or kill me," he said, hissing at the pain from talking, "it ends the same for her."

His eye was twitching and he took a deep breath, looking away from the bleeding captive. "I don't think so, Nathaniel," he said as he tossed the knife behind him.

"Frank, holy shit, you were right," David said, suddenly. "They've got her in the service corridor. Fuck, she looks bad."

"What did they do to her?" Frank asked; the question was heard by both David and Nathaniel, so they both answered.

"She looks pretty beat up," the voice over his earpiece said.

"I let them have some fun with her before they brought her to me," the man in front of him said, grinning with blood running down his cheek.

Frank's vision went blurry; not from tears, but from rage. He grabbed Nathaniel by the throat with his left hand and pulled him forward until he screamed from his arms protesting being bent backward so far. He reared his head back and slammed his forehead into the lawyer's nose; he could feel it breaking. Before he even had a chance to scream, Frank's hand gripped his throat tighter, constricting his airways. Then he began punching him, over and over until the blood from his nose and the bloody spit around his mouth were indistinguishable. He was growling as he grabbed both sides of Nathaniel's head and slammed it back against the metal bar; he screamed with every impact.

Frank turned and grabbed the Karambit knife again, slicing the cable ties around his wrists and picking him up. He walked him over to what looked like a large grate that was suspended in the air and he used the leather cuffs to tie him there, forcing him to stand. Then, Frank used the thick chain from the drawer and wrapped it around Nathaniel's neck, attaching it to the grating as well. He saw a wheel on the wall with chains that led to the grating and he went to it to begin spinning it, watching as the lawyer's arms began extending, then the chain around his neck tightened.

"Stay here," he said, patting Nathaniel's cheek, mockingly, as the lawyer stood on his tip toes and gripped the chains on his cuffs to hold himself up. He was clearly still woozy and struggling to keep his feet underneath him.

"They're at the door, Frank," Lieberman said.

"I'm coming," he replied, exiting the dungeon.


	29. Chapter 29

_Author's Note: Oh my god, you guys! I have had the craziest couple of weeks. We had a major survey from the state at my work and I've been freaking out about that in all my free time. Oh, I'm sorry this took so long._

 _This text is from Batman: Arkham Asylum, A Serious House on Serious Earth by Grant Morrison. I know, a bit weird to use Batman comic text for a Punisher story, but it's one of my favorite stories and really embodies the **journey** that "heroes" must go through and how those individuals can become what they fight._

 _Pretty perfect, if you ask me._

 _Anyway, here you go:_

* * *

 _I'm falling._

 _Oh! Mother, what tree is this?_

 _What wounds are these?_

 _I am Attis on the pine._

 _Christ on the cedar._

 _Odin on the world-ash._

 _Hung on the windy tree for nine whole nights,_

 _Wounded with the spear._

 _Dedicated to Odin._

 _Myself to myself._

 _I must see my reflection to prove I exist!_

 _Outside, I hear the dragon coming closer, closer._

 _Desperately I peel the tape from the mirror,_

 _breaking my fingernails, strip by strip._

 _And then I stare into the old familiar eyes._

 _I must have fainted then,_

 _For it is morning when next I open my eyes,_

 _No longer able to tell where the dragon ended,_

 _And I begin._

 _Yet, am I not the hero?_

 _The man of destiny?_

 _Have I not confronted the Great Dragon?_

 _Where, then, is my grail?_

 _My great treasure horde?_

 _My final reward?_

Frank had it in him to be monstrous. He had always known this about himself and it had come in handy in wartime, both in Hell's Kitchen, Iraq, and in Kandahar. But there was something inside of him at that moment, clawing its way out; something totally unfamiliar; something ferocious. He used the mirror on the ceiling to count them and determine their positions in the room, as well as Karen's. He noticed one of the men with black hair and a fancy coat on; his eye twitched when he realized that he had seen that one in the alley behind Karen's apartment building. Frank went back down the hall to the bedroom, where Mindy was laying on the bed; he pat her on the head and walked to the large, walk-in closet that was attached to the bedroom. Within, he found the fuse box and cut all the power to the apartment. He walked back through the bedroom, past Mindy, and into the hallway. He rounded the corner, holding up his Kel Tec KSG and fired it at the back of one man's head, bathing the rest of them in his blood and brain matter. He cocked the gun again and fired at the large man who was gripping Karen's arm; when his grip loosened, she dove behind the chair she was near.

The black-haired man had his gun aimed at Frank; he fired a single shot that hit him in the vest, right over his heart. He made a sound, an inhuman sound that no one alive had ever heard. A monster's sound.

A sound of vengeance, of punishment.

Frank turned and leapt over the kitchen island, taking cover while three more distinct gunshots rang out. He reloaded his shotgun quickly and pulled the Desert Eagle out of his shoulder holster; he caught a reflection in the metallic surface behind the stove and spun himself around, pressing his back to the cupboards he had been facing. He aimed his shot gun at the man on the right, a large, white man who barely fit into his designer suit; the shot hit him in the chest, full on, throwing him backward into the living room. "Fuck, get her!" A voice screamed.

On his left, a smaller man with a handgun was running to jump on Frank as he fired the Desert Eagle twice; bleeding from his gut, the man still tried to grab onto him, shouting, "You fucker," as Frank held up the shotgun and pulled the trigger right in front of his face.

The shot was so close to his ear, that all he could hear was a sharp ringing. Frank growled again, and jumped up, his Desert Eagle raised; he fired and caught one of them in his head. That one, a young guy with brown hair, collapsed, dead. Frank rubbed his temple, trying to get his head to stop pounding as he walked to the hallway. He moved along the wall toward the dungeon door, which was open now; he reloaded the shot gun again and held it up, along with the handgun, swinging around into the room. He took another bullet to the belly, blocked by the vest, just as he shot the black-haired guy in the shoulder; his aim was off because of the pain coming from his abdomen. He also fired the Kel Tec and the blast took out the guy on the left, while the third one was trying to get the handcuffs off of Nathaniel. He was of Asian heritage, with black hair.

The red lighting was still on, suggesting it was on a separate power grid somehow but the effect made the blood all over Frank's face look black. Karen was on the ground, unmoving, and the Asian man watched as the Punisher looked from her to Nathaniel, and back to him. He tried to reach for his gun, but he was shaking and moved too slowly to see the Karambit knife flying toward his face. It entered his eye and he screamed, falling to his knees.

He had successfully unbound one of Thomas' wrists before this, though, and in the moments when Frank's attention had moved away from him, the attorney had freed himself from the binds completely and reached down to grab Karen from the floor.

He held her limply against him, his arm around her waist and her head lying against his own. He had a gun, probably taken from the body on the floor, and it as aimed at her temple. "Drop 'em, you fuck," he said, so furious he was spitting blood with each word.

The black-haired guy with the not-so-nice coat was standing next to him, holding up his own gun. Frank spent two seconds considering doing as he said, but he knew that they would kill Karen either way. Then the memory of his dream, of watching her bleed out, popped in his head and he gripped his guns, holding his aim on the lawyer and the final guard.

 _I understand now what my memory tried to keep from me._

 _Madness is born in the blood._

 _It is my birthright._

 _My inheritance._

 _My destiny._

"Karen," he said, his voice gruff and strange. She did not respond to him and he whispered her name again and fired the shotgun. The shot hit the black-haired man in the chest, sending him backward as Frank rushed at Karen and Nathaniel, tackling them to the ground.

The attorney fired his weapon.

Frank was on them and had broken Thomas' gun hand by gripping it and twisting, swiftly; he heard the bones snap but didn't hesitate to continue. Karen was laying on her side inches away from where they were struggling on the floor. Thomas was screaming and trying to fight. Frank began hitting the attorney with the butt of his shotgun, smashing the weapon down over and over. After a few hits, he stopped fight and then, he tossed the gun aside and began using his fists, punching as hard as he could, and he screamed in a guttural roar, long and loud. Each time he pulled his arm back, he felt blood splatter on his face, neck, and probably his chest. He knew that he was bleeding as well; the shot the attorney had fired had gotten him in the shoulder but he couldn't feel it.

He couldn't feel it at all.

But he _could_ feel the way that Nathaniel Thomas' skull was breaking, pieces lodging into his brain. The attorney wasn't screaming anymore and Frank was sure that he was dead now. But he kept punching him; his arms were getting tired from the repetitive motion. He sat back on his knees and looked over, taking deep breaths and basking in the relief that Karen was here.

"Karen," he gasped, moving off of the dead man's body and reaching for her. Her face was bloody from the spray of other people's blood, but she didn't seem to be bleeding anywhere. She was bruised, though; clearly they had beaten her for hours. He touched her cheek, smearing blood across her pale skin; he leaned down and turned his head, hovering above her to listen to her mouth; she was breathing. She was alive. He felt the tears sting his eyes when he lifted her from the ground and began carrying her out of the dungeon.

"Lieberman," he whispered, "get an ambulance."


	30. I'll Follow You

Oh my god, thank you so much Fawkes! If you had not said a thing, I wouldn't have even checked! Which is my own error, because that weird code issue has happened to me multiple times, but I usually catch it. Thank you, again, Fawkes! I dedicate this chapter to you!

Just an added note: this is _not_ the end! I will be following this chapter up.

Thanks to all of my loyal readers! I'm so grateful for the positive and supportive comments since I uploaded the first chapter. I hope you all enjoy! R&R please!

* * *

 _I'll follow you down_

 _To where forever lies._

 _Without a doubt,_

 _I'm on your side._

 _There's nowhere else_

 _That I'd rather be._

Frank was standing in the hospital stairwell, waiting by the door to the floor that Karen's room was on. He had his hoodie on and the hood covered his face but when he had cracked the door open, one nurse recognized him immediately. She didn't respond right away, but did make her way to the very end of the hall. She took a chart off the wall by the last hospital room and pretended to review it as she said, "What are you doing here?"

"Is Karen okay?" He asked with a shaky voice.

Clair Temple sighed, frustrated, and nodded her head. "She's alive and out of the ICU."

"What were her injuries?"

"Aside from nearly dying?" She asked and he could hear the anger in her voice. "Isn't this because of your _war_?"

He shook his head and said, "But I know why you would think that."

She took a moment to consider that and then she said, "She was beaten, badly." She emphasized the last word. "She's got three fractured ribs, some minor internal bleeding that was taken care of in surgery, and a lot of cuts and bruises, but other than that..."

"That all they did?" He asked, trying to pretend that he wasn't terrified of the answer.

She hesitated before saying, "No sexual trauma, if that's what you're asking."

He released a shaky breath and nodded, but he didn't say anything else. He felt his lip trembling as the tears came on; the shame at his failure to protect her. One fucking attacker shows up at his _front door_ and Frank goes down like a sack of rocks. She's held somewhere and beaten for hours while he stumbles around the city, sniffing for clues.

Claire sensed that something had shifted in his demeanor; she could hear the shaky breathing that was associated with tears. He wiped at his eyes, trying to hide the fact that he was crying. She sighed and began, "Look, um," and he looked over at her. She saw the tears in his eyes and she seemed to make up her mind about something. "I don't know when Karen hit her head so hard that she fell for you, but I do know that she is one tough woman and when she sets her mind on something, she does it." Since this was all information he knew already, he furrowed his brow, waiting for her to continue. "She always owns the consequences of her actions," she continued. "She wouldn't want you to blame yourself for this."

He considered her words but didn't respond; he only asked, "Can you get me in her room to see her?"

She looked around and said, "Keep your head down and follow me."

Karen was sleeping on the hospital bed, wearing a light blue hospital gown. The room was in partial darkness as it was nearly two in the morning, but the light to the right of her bed was on. Though her face was partially in the dark, he could see from his place at the door that she was quite bruised; her right eye was swollen and her lips were puffy. He stepped closer, grabbing a plastic chair and pulling it to her bedside; he sat down and observed her more closely. She was wearing an oxygen tube under her nose, she had an IV in her right hand, and she was attached to a heartrate and blood pressure monitor. Frank wasn't trained as a medic and knew very little about these machines, but he could see that Karen's heartrate was strong and her blood pressure seemed to be in a good range.

He reached forward and took her left hand in both of his; he held it against his forehead for a moment before bringing his cracked lips to the skin on her fingers, kissing each one. Through the sounds of whirring machines and unending beeping, he could no longer look at her. From this distance, he could see the dark bruising that covered her face, her neck, and along her arms; he was sure there were other bruises on her body. In that moment, he realized that his tears were falling heavily down his cheeks and the sob he had contained since she was taken broke through his tentative hold. He dropped his head and wept; the sobs wracked his body in a way that made him feel like he might vomit if he couldn't control himself. He knew that he had failed; he had let Karen down.

 _I let my girl down_.

He lifted his head slightly and pressed the back of her hand to his cheeks, reveling in her warmth and feeling the pulse beneath her skin. She was alive. He kept turning his face away when his eyes would roam to those bruises; but each time he glanced at her, he had to grit his teeth so hard, he thought they might break to hold back a feral scream of rage.

Rage at himself.

She had found his pieces; she collected them all and gave them to him…

And he nearly let her get raped; he let her be tortured and beaten; he'd nearly watched her die.

"Frank," a weak voice asked; he looked up and saw one of Karen's blue eyes open and on him. She was weak and tired, he could tell; and the swelling made it so difficult for her to look at him. "Frank, are you okay?"

He looked incredulous; his eye twitched. "Me?" He growled, loudly, before catching himself and dropping his head back down in shame. "I failed you," he whispered.

She gripped his hands and whispered, "Look at me." He refused, keeping his head down. She repeated herself, trying to be louder, but only succeeding in causing herself pain. When she gasped, his head jerked up and she saw his tears; she saw the snot on his lip; she knew his shame. "I'm okay," she said and he tried to interrupt but she cut him off. "I knew you would find me."

"I didn't," he whispered, holding her hand tighter and pressing it to his right cheek.

She tried to smile but he could tell that the attempt was painful. "This wasn't my first rodeo," she said and he could tell, from the sound of her voice and the way her eye was blinking more, that she was falling back to sleep. "I wasn't afraid that I would die because," she began, taking a deep breath before finishing, "because the big, bad Punisher loves me." As she drifted off, he let his head drop again. But then he heard her speak again. "As much as I love him."

The big, bad Punisher in love with Karen fucking Page, nose for trouble.

And she loved him too.


	31. Love When Your Heart is Broken

_Author's Note: Hi everyone! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I like it a lot and I think it sets us up for the end. Please read and review!_

* * *

 _When all is gone, the only loss_

 _Is not to have loved at every cost._

 _When you can say,_

 _And I can say_

 _We loved with every step we take._

Frank stayed with Karen for hours that night, fearing to leave in case she might wake again. He didn't want her to be alone. This desire grew the next night when he resumed his place at her bedside; he was laying his head on the bed, holding her right hand when she jerked, slightly, and moaned. This moan, though, was one of fear and pain. His head shot up and he reached out to grab her right shoulder, while maintaining his hold on her hand. "Karen," he said and gave her a small shake. "Karen, you're dreaming," he said and he almost wished he hadn't. When her eyes finally flew open, for a terrible moment, she didn't recognize him. The look of sheer terror her face held did not fade quickly, but as it did, she began to weep.

Frank crept onto the bed with her, lying on his side and, carefully, wrapping his left arm over her belly, avoiding her ribs. He scooted as close as he could without putting pressure on her injuries and held her as tightly as he dared. She reached her right arm up but it could only lift a few inches; she gripped his shirt, weakly, as her tears fell. "I'm here," he whispered, trying to suppress his own tears of guilt. That nightmare, he knew, was about what she had endured.

That nightmare was because of his failure.

All that was keeping him from slipping into the deep well of guilt and shame inside him was the knowledge that she was gripping him so tightly because he made her feel safe. "I'm here," he kept whispering, focusing on keeping his large frame from pressing against any of her injuries. He realized that she had broken ribs and her body was covered in large, blotchy bruises and he could tell that she was in pain, but if he tried to pull back at all, her hand pulled him back again. Well, more like, her hand tugged him and he acquiesced, pressing his body against her.

"Frank," she wept; her voice was raw from the pain and the tears, but he whispered, on and on, that she was safe and he wouldn't leave. Eventually, she fell back into an uneasy sleep.

Frank, too, fell asleep, at some point. He was awoken by Claire at 4:30 in the morning, telling him that the new nurse was going to come on shift. "She'll start her rounds at the far end of the hall, but you need to go now."

He nodded his head and began to get up, slowly and carefully; he tried not to disturb Karen but once he had set his feet on the ground, he felt her tugging at his shirt again. He turned back to look at her and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "I'll see you soon," he whispered. Unwillingly, she released her grip and fell back to sleep.

Claire opened the door to Karen's room and peered out, waving for Frank to head to the stairwell. He glanced back at her one more time before leaving. "I'll be back tonight," he said.

And he was. He returned that night and the next and the next. Each night, he kissed her forehead and sat in the uncomfortable, plastic chair; he held her hand and laid his head down. Before he even realized that he had fallen asleep, he would be thrust back into awareness by the sounds of her nightmare again. He didn't force her awake as he had the first time. He knew better now and he never wanted to see the look of non-recognition ever again. He gripped her hand tighter, whispering, "I'm here, Karen." He touched her cheek, lightly, with his right hand and she seemed to relax.

By the fourth night, the swelling had gone down and her bruises were fading. The broken bones and other, deeper wounds, would take far more time to heal. When Claire came into the room to wake him before shift change, she said, "She's being discharged today."

He was surprised, but nodded, and kissed Karen on her forehead again. "I'll pick her up," he said.

"I'm taking her home," Claire explained in a stubborn tone.

Frank considered arguing, but then thought better of it. "Can you bring her to my place, then?"

She hesitated briefly before agreeing. "Give me your address."

After he did, he went through Karen's purse to find her apartment keys. "I'll pick up some things for her," he said, holding up the set and leaving for the stairwell.

"Hey," Claire called, quietly, and he stopped in the doorway. She contemplated her words carefully, running her fingers through her hair. "I know what you did… for her. I also know that you did it for yourself, too." He opened his mouth to interrupt, to tell her that she was full of shit, but she continued on. "Karen knows too. You did those things to those monsters and you _said_ it was for her, but we both know as well as she does that you got something out of it too." He had closed his mouth as she spoke, swallowing around a dry throat. "Matt was like that too," she said, looking him straight in the eyes. "Matt liked it, _needed_ it," she continued, daring him to argue, daring him to dispute what she was saying. He turned to leave, but he sensed that there was a part of her that _wanted_ him to tell her that she was wrong. There was something in her tone that was asking him the questions that Karen never had.

 _How can I compete with the rage you have?_

 _How can I make you want to live a life of **after** and not feel as though I'm keeping you from being who you are?_

 _How can I fall in love with you, knowing that you'll do this until it kills you?_

He remembered something then; something he had forgotten; something that felt like it had happened in another lifetime. _Don't **do** this and say it's for me_, she had said when Lewis was going after her. Karen hadn't simply asked him not to kill the kid; she asked him not to pretend that his war had been for anyone but himself.

"Matt lost her because of that need," Claire finished, talking to his back. "She could have lived her life with him, knowing that he did what he did for the good of others, for the _right_ reasons." He was staring straight ahead at the wall across from Karen's room; there was and "exit" sign with arrows pointing toward his right. "But he couldn't live his life like that, not even with her." She didn't finish the statement with 'Can you?' but he knew it was there, hanging in the air between them; hanging in the air above Karen's bed.

He didn't respond; he had no answer that could satisfy her, or himself, so he left.

He didn't veer from his plan; he went to Karen's apartment and packed more clothes for her, as well as grabbed a number of items that she might like to have, including shampoo, conditioner, a brush, and some coffee creamer. When he returned to his own home, he put the items in the appropriate places, including hanging some of her clothes up and making space in his dresser for other items. Afterward, he went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face; when he stood up straight again, he met his own eyes in the mirror. His hair and beard were long again; longer than they had been before he met Lieberman. He rubbed his hands over his bearded cheeks and through his long hair, noting how it brushed the collar of his shirt in the back. He turned his head this way and that, examining the length and look of it before he bent back down and pulled his electric razor from a drawer.

Once he had finished, he felt more like himself; he buzzed the sides and left a small amount of length on top and shaved his beard off, entirely. He filled the sink full of warm water and opened the cupboard, pulling out more items. He squirted shaving gel into his left hand and then rubbed it against his right; he used both hands to cover his cheeks, chin, and neck as evenly as possible before rinsing the now white substance from his hands in the basin. He picked up the old fashioned razor from the countertop and pressed it to the right side of his face first.

When he could see his entire face again, Frank felt strange; he felt that he was staring into the eyes of a man he barely recognized. He hoped that Karen wouldn't feel the same way. He unplugged the drain and watched the water, filled with hair and bits of dissolving shaving cream glide down the drain in a clockwise motion. Once it was gone, he used a hand towel and wiped the remaining mess from the counter and basin, then turned the water on to rinse the rest of it off of his face.

At just that moment, he heard the door buzzer go off and tossed the hand towel into the laundry hamper as he exited the bathroom. He pressed the intercom button and asked, "Who is it?"

"It's me," she said and he pressed the door button without any hesitation.


	32. I Can't Face the Dark Without You

_Author's Note: Please read and review! We're so close to the end and I'm very sad. :'( But I'm so happy to have shared this with you all!_

* * *

 _Come back down_

 _Save yourself._

 _I can't find my way to you_

 _And I can't bear to face the truth._

Several hours earlier…

Karen was asleep, she knew she was; but something was waking her up and she wanted it to stop. Being awake made her realize how much pain she was in; being awake made her deal with it. She was trying to open her eyes but it hurt and it felt like her right eyelid was too heavy, as if something were pressing against it. She recalled that a nurse had shown her a button that she was to press when her pain was too much. But then she remembered other things; she remembered being afraid and trying to hide it. She remembered the pain and the constant battering. She remembered trying to seem sure of what she was saying. She remembered telling them – the group of men who were taking turns beating her, cutting her, threatening to _touch_ her – telling them that they were _all going to die_.

" _The Punisher is coming for you," she said, clenching her teeth against the pain in her jaw. Her hands were bound behind her back and there were cable ties around her ankles. When they grabbed her, the same man who hit Frank used his baton on her, knocking her unconscious. She woke up in the van as they were pulling her out and into a building. The men who kidnapped her had tossed her on the floor at first but then picked her up to move her onto a long, island-like counter after they had kicked her, knocking the wind out of her lungs. There were seven of them, she counted. All of them had guns and two had knives that she knew of. One of them had already cut her with his, across her upper arm; it was still bleeding but the pain was not bothering her anymore._

 _As they kicked and punched her, she was afraid she might throw up, but then she remembered that she hadn't eaten for more than eight or nine hours. The room was poorly lit, but she knew that she was in some sort of loft. It was cluttered and dusty; she could tell it had probably been used for storage for months. "He'll kill you all," she said, but her voice was harsher because of the pain._

" _The Punisher is fuckin' dead," one laughed. He had an accent that she couldn't place, but she didn't care to. He hadn't been the one that attacked Frank; it was the tall one with dark hair and a fancy coat. She knew that he had probably followed them from her apartment when they left the day before. He was still holding the baton he had used to hit Frank._

 _Another one, bald and fat, came over and punched her, hard, right in the face. "Shut the fuck up," he said, but he looked worried. The others did too._

 _She had tears on her cheeks but she didn't cry out; she didn't let them see her fear or her desperation. She wanted to keep them nervous so they would make a mistake. She kept repeating in her head: 'Frank is coming, Frank is coming' and she didn't know how long it had been since they had taken her. She had blacked out a few times after the initial attack; the dark-haired one seemed to know exactly where to aim the baton to send her reeling._

 _She tasted blood and felt wetness on her forehead, cheeks, and neck and she was sure it wasn't all from her tears. She did believe that Frank would find her; she just didn't know if he would find her in time. "You're all going to die," she said._

 _Then the baton came down again; then she was out._

Karen swallowed around a dry throat and began to grow awareness of her surroundings. She remembered flashes after that; she remembered that one had ripped at her clothes but another stopped him; "Remember the plan," he had shouted. Other flashes were worse; boots and fists and someone licked her blood off of her cheek. But then, they were in an apartment and she remembered gun shots and screams; she remembered lying on the floor in a black room with horrible things on the walls.

She remembered Frank, touching her cheek and she saw how afraid he had been. She remembered that he had cried and apologized; he had been so angry with himself but she wasn't. She was just so incredibly relieved that they were both alive; that they were together again.

That he loved her and that she loved him.

Then she was hearing voices again; two of them, and they were bringing her into awareness but it hurt. Everything hurt. She knew something was very wrong but she hadn't been awake enough to remember what the nurse had told her. Again, she tried to open her eyes but it was a struggle; but in the moment that she could see, she recognized the shape that was standing in the doorway; his broad, rigid shoulders were hidden under a hoodie, but she could recognize him anyway.

"Frank," she tried to speak but her voice was barely breath coming out of her throat. She tried again but it was fruitless and painful.

"Karen knows too," she heard a woman's voice say. "You did those things to those monsters and you _said_ it was for her but we both know as well as she does that you got something out of it too." Karen realized that it was Claire's voice she was hearing. She tried to call out to her but her throat was so dry and the other woman was speaking again. "Matt was like that too. Matt liked it, _needed_ it."

Karen couldn't hear if Frank responded but she knew he was still there. She understood what Claire was trying to do, or say; she understood that her friend was looking out for her; but she also knew that Claire had loved Matt once. She wondered if her friend was projecting her own feelings onto them. She was too tired to recognize all of this quickly or easily at that time but later, she would look back and remember.

"Matt lost her because of that need," Claire continued. "She could have lived her life with him, knowing that he did what he did for the good of others, for the _right_ reasons." Karen really had cared deeply for Matt; she had hoped to love him, even. But he kept secrets from her.

When she had found that woman in his bed, she hadn't felt heartbreak or pain; she had felt anger; she had been humiliated. How could she forgive him after that? How could she love him, knowing that he had already chosen another woman over her? He tried to make it right after Elektra had died but there was nothing to make right; there was nothing left for them.

But Frank never lied to her; he never kept secrets. He had a shell around him that kept him safe but it had cracked almost immediately. He shared himself with her completely; she knew that. She told him so that night at the diner.

 _That night felt like years ago… Since then, so many things had happened: Frank had 'died,' then returned, then disappeared, then returned again; then he had 'died' again. Ellison had received the report and brought it to her to read. She had stared at it blankly for nearly a minute and her hands shook when she took it from him. But after reading it, she only felt… numb. She wanted to believe that he was still alive but they had a body and the fingerprints matched._

 _But the day before he finally returned to her, she received a call from a man she had never met or heard of. He introduced himself as Curtis and said that they had a mutual friend who was reportedly dead. "But he's not," the man said and then hung up the phone. Karen had stared at her dark phone screen for what felt like hours; she wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that he was still alive somewhere. She accepted that, even if he never came back; even if she never saw him again, it was enough that she knew he was alive._

 _It was enough that they had had those few moments together._

 _It was enough that she loved him and that he never kept secrets, or lied to her._

 _He had once told her to find that feeling, to find someone who gave her that, and to hold on with_ twohands. _She had stared at her phone screen as tears spilled down her cheeks and thought, 'He never could have loved me.' She thought: 'He still had both hands on his family; he still had both hands in the grave.'_

Then Claire's voice brought her back to her hospital bed. "But he couldn't live his life like that, not even with her."

Karen tried to say that she didn't want Matt to; she tried to stop Claire from saying more, but all that happened was her dry mouth opened and she felt a sharp pain in her jaw. She pressed the button that the nurse had shown her and, quickly, felt the sleepiness come on.

Then she was out.

Frank met Karen at the elevator doors and she kissed him; her face still ached and she couldn't reach her arms around him because of the pain in her ribs, but she didn't care. He kissed her back, touching her gently on the cheek and upper left arm as she grabbed his shirt in her fists. She had seen her own face in the mirror before she left the hospital but she had seen him look worse. Much worse.

Her eye was still a bit swollen; her cheeks and neck were bruised; she had stitches in her hairline; and her lips had been split in two places. But when he kissed her, she felt no pain. She felt relieved; she felt happy.

When he pulled away, he let his forehead rest against hers, lightly. He began, "Karen," but she shook her head and took his hand to pull him to his apartment.

"Later," she whispered, hoarsely. "Now, I want you to hold me." She knew that he would need to talk to her about the things that Claire had said. She knew that she would need to tell him that it was okay.

They had so many things they wanted to say but never had and they both knew that they had nearly lost their chance. But they were still here.

"I got a surprise for you," he said with a small smile on his face.

"Oh yeah?" She said, playfully.

"Yeah," he said, opening his apartment door to a gorgeous German shepherd. "Her name is Mindy."


	33. I Am Not Worthy of This

_Author's Note: Please read and review! It's shorter than I had wanted, so I apologize for that, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!_

* * *

 _Will the faithful be rewarded_

 _When we come to the end?_

 _Will I miss the final warning_

 _From the lie that I have lived?_

 _Is there anybody calling?_

 _I can see the soul within_

 _And I am not worthy._

 _I am not worthy of this._

Karen and Frank went to his bed and he helped her lay down. She immediately moved onto her right side where the broken ribs were and he said, "You can't lay on that side!"

She turned her head, smiling at the concerned look on his face. "The doctors told me that it's a good idea, so that my other ribs can expand without hurting me."

It sounded really clinical. It sounded made up. But Frank didn't argue again; he leaned over and pulled her shoes off, setting them on the floor. He paused for a moment, before saying, "Do you… do you want to sleep in your clothes?" He gestured to the beige cardigan, loose jeans, and a baggy t-shirt she was wearing.

She looked down at them, as well, following his eyes, and then she nodded her head. She began moving to sit up, all the while furrowing her brow and clenching her jaw against the shooting pains she must have been experiencing. He still hadn't seen the stitches she had somewhere; they were the result of the surgery that the doctor had done to stop the internal bleeding. Frank had looked over her chart when the nurses were nowhere to be found and he saw that the contusions that led to the bleed were caused by the broken ribs.

That made him feel helpless. It made him want to murder those fuckers all over again. It made him want to hold onto her as tightly as he could; hold on with _two hands_.

Mindy had followed them and jumped onto the bed as Frank was helping Karen slip the cardigan off of her arms and then, slowly and very carefully, he helped her get the jeans off. For a moment, after she resumed her position, he worried that the dog would jostle her or lay too close, but Mindy simply lay down, facing the door as any trained guard dog would do.

Frank removed his own shoes and socks, then he pulled his shirt off and unzipped his pants, allowing all of it to fall to the floor, forgotten. He still worried that Karen shouldn't be lying on that side but she was adamant that it was safe. "I talked it over with Claire, too," she said. He sat on the edge of the bed and hesitated; he wanted to hold her but he couldn't shake the memories of what that nurse had said to him. She sensed his hesitation and rolled over, slowly, running her left hand over the muscles of his back. "What's going on in there?" She whispered, bringing that hand up and poking her finger to the back of his head.

He turned toward her and met her eyes but he didn't speak; not yet. He took a breath and grabbed a blanket, scooting onto the bed next to her. Something in her expression changed, as if she saw that wall go up and knew that he would talk about it in his own time. She rolled onto her side again and he wrapped his arm around her; she took his hand in hers and laced their fingers together. Their hands rested, softly, against her belly.

Then a feeling came over him; one so powerful, it shocked him. He realized that it had been less than 48 hours since they had been in this bed together. He felt his entire body heat up, remembering the sounds that she had made and how she felt – above him, beneath him, surrounding him – made him shiver. She felt it. She gripped his hand tighter.

But those memories let to others:

… _as much as I love him_.

… _as much as I love him._

 _I love him._

 _I love you._

Frank rested his face against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair; it smelled like her but with something less sweet, probably from the hospital. He couldn't have cared less, though. He took a deep breath and whispered, "Karen?" She didn't speak but she did hum to acknowledge that she had heard him. "You said something… the other night." She responded in the same way she had before but it was bit quieter than previously. "You could… could you… say it again?"

Saying these words – nearly begging her to say what she had said the other night – had his heart pounding so hard and fast that he could feel it in his toes.

She never said a word and, soon, he realized that she had fallen asleep. He knew that she had heard him; he'd heard the change in her breathing and seen the smile on her face. His heart was still pumping loudly in his ears; he was struggling to focus but as her breathing slowed and he felt the way his _entire body_ relaxed simply by being with her – feeling her _so alive_ – he felt himself slipping into sleep.

He woke up several hours later and woke Karen too; he brought her food and a pain pill she had gotten from the hospital. He fixed the pillows to provide her with as comfortable of a way to sit up as he could. His ribs had been broken before and he knew how long and painful the recovery was.

"The pills won't always help but they'll make you sleep a lot," he said, handing her a glass of water.

"I'm okay with that," she said after she swallowed the pill down.

He smiled, taking the glass and setting it on the table by the bed. "I'm not," he said, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I want to spend time with my girl." After it had been said, he felt his face flush.

The smile on her face widened and he couldn't help but smile too; he looked down and away, but the smile stayed. But then, as he looked on at Mindy, he remembered the blood on his hands. He remembered the things that he had done. He could see all of the lives that he had taken, all of the scum that he had put down, and this woman was here in his bed.

He couldn't stop from wondering, _Do I deserve this_?

Then it happened; a small sound, almost too quiet to hear.

"I… love you."


	34. Everglow

_Author's Note: Hi all! I'm so sorry I have been taking so long with updates but I'm pretty sure that there will only be one more chapter after this. Ugh. It's bittersweet. Please enjoy and review! Let me know what you think. :) You're all awesome. Thank you!_

* * *

 _Everglow._

 _You'll never know the beauty I see_

 _When you open your shadows._

 _Everglow._

 _They'll never know the worlds that I see_

 _In the darkness you don't show._

"She's right," he said with a shaky voice, casting his eyes around the room. "I didn't just do it for you. I did it because… because I wanted to." He had decided that he was going to be completely honest with Karen. He recognized that the truth could frighten her enough that she might never want to see him again, but he knew that lying to her, _like Murdock_ , would do that definitively. When he spoke again, he flinched at the crack in his voice and the pain that thought of her leaving brought on. "I did it because it's who I am. I did it because my family's gone and I… I got my vengeance, but they aren't the only ones and they won't be. There are other families out there who have lost the people they loved." Finally, he met her eyes for a moment and he could tell that she was worried; he wondered if she was thinking that he was going to end it with her; be like the _altar boy_. "Every day, Karen, _every day_ this city wakes up to shit; murders, rapes, robberies. No one does a thing. But I do. I don't need my vengeance anymore – I don't." He took in a breath and thought for a moment. Her eyes were on him; they hadn't moved once; he was partly sure that she hadn't even blinked since he began talking. "I almost lost you…and I felt a lot of different things. I was _furious_ with myself; I felt _helpless_ and ashamed. I was so afraid that you were gonna die." He felt the sting of tears coming on, but he ignored them. "It would have been my fault. And the _shit_ he would have done to you," he exhaled his breath, harshly, and clenched his fists on the table between them. "I couldn't just put 'em down easy, or knock 'em around. I couldn't just bring the cops in to arrest 'em. I _needed_ to do what I did. I _needed_ to punish them."

Their eyes met again and he saw so many things in her eyes; he saw that there were so many things she wanted to say to him. There were so many things he had wanted to say to her, too. Before Claire had said those things to him, he had imagined that they would have all the time in the world to say the things they couldn't yet. But he wondered if they would even have the chance to say the things they _needed_ to; he wondered if she would even stick around long enough to speak her own piece.

That thought brought on a pain so fresh and deep, he shut his eyes. But he had given her the truth, his truth, and he would let her decide, for herself, if she could accept it. It was _one thing_ for her to accept The Punisher when she _needed_ him for herself, but it was entirely different to let him come home to her night after night, beaten and bloody, smelling like gun powder and metal. It was entirely different to know that he murdered people with his bare hands and then came home to make love to her with their blood still under his fingernails.

So, he waited and focused on his breathing; he stared at his hands on the table, noting the broken and cracked skin from pummeling Nathaniel's face until it was mush. He glanced up and realized that she, too, was looking at his hands.

These hands had killed a man in front of her, more than once.

These hands had made her _smile_ and laugh.

These hands had made her come over and over.

These were Frank's hands.

He heard her take a long breath and release it; it was shaky, uneasy. She had been sitting in the chair for a long time and he imagined that she was getting uncomfortable. He had gotten her a pain pill when they ate breakfast, about three hours prior to this conversation. He wanted to ask her if she wanted another one, but he wouldn't; couldn't. He had to wait; he had to give her time to consider his words.

"I think I," she began, but then hesitated. He looked up and met her eyes but the look was unreadable to him. She took another breath and then continued, "I think I knew that. All of it, all along." She swallowed and adjusted in the seat, obviously uncomfortable.

"Do you want a pill?" He asked, quietly. When she nodded, he was up and at the fridge in seconds, grabbing a bottle of water and the pill bottle off of the counter; he returned to the table and unscrewed the lid on the water bottle so that she wouldn't have to struggle with it; then he wrenched the lid off of the prescription bottle and set one pill on the table by the bottle. Then he returned his attention to her, completely, and continued waiting.

She set the pill on her tongue and then took a large drink from the bottle, swallowing hard to make sure it went all the way down. Then, she took another drink before she set the bottle down. She seemed to feel a bit more relaxed, even if the pill would take up to thirty minutes to reach its full effect. While he waited, he let his mind wander to the days since she had discharged from the hospital. She had been at his place for two days and they had slept through most of them; Frank was still recovering from the shots that he had taken to his vest, as well as the minimal sleep he had gotten while she was in the hospital.

After she had told him, again, that she loved him, he had simply stared at her; he had been considering the things that he had done in the time they had known one another. He had been considering if he was, or if he _could be_ worthy of her.

 _I…love you_.

It was simple; her voice had been quiet as if she was telling him a secret or, maybe, she hoped he wouldn't hear it.

Or perhaps she was afraid. Not _of_ him, but of loving him for who he is. She said she knew the truth he had told her; she had known all along. He imagined how terrifying it would be to love someone like him; he couldn't even picture it. He recognized how worried he felt when he had learned about that story she was working on, about the danger of it, and when he had realized that she wasn't backing down.

He had felt powerless and terrified; he had felt angry and helpless. He had felt proud.

Maybe loving him felt a little bit like that.

 _A woman to match him_.

"Knowing that," he said, "does that change how you feel about me?" He had laced his fingers together on the table and stared at them, trying to keep himself from looking at her.

He heard her take another breath, long and shaky, and he flinched. He knew what was coming; he'd been here before. Before Maria, of course he had been dumped a time or two. It always stung but that pain would fade. He felt his breathing begin to pick up in pace as the anxiety over her answer became palpable. It had been mere moments since he had asked her the question but it felt like forever and the pain from the rejection and sadness spread in his chest. He felt his eye twitch as he recognized and suppressed a rising tide of anger.

He had saved her life over and over; he had trusted her enough to have an _after_ with her. He had given her every single part of himself that he could, even the parts that might scare her. He had grabbed her and held on with two hands…for nothing.

"I…" she began, but he interrupted.

"Don't worry about it, Karen." He stood up from the table and walked to his windows, looking out over the street below. It was around ten-thirty in the morning and spring was in full bloom outside; the trees were full of flowers and the sun shone down on everything. But all he saw were the dark alleyways and shadows.

The places that Frank belonged.

"Frank," she said, suddenly standing very close to him. He turned around but tried not to meet her gaze; he knew he had tears falling down his cheeks and he wondered when they had fallen. "Frank," she said again, reaching her hands up to touch his face. He flinched and she hesitated for half of a second before she touched her cool fingers to his cheeks, using her thumbs to wipe his tears away. "I knew this about you all along," she said again. "I admit that I… I wanted you to be able to finish and…be done. Be content. But I saw the look in your eyes when we were in that apartment, Frank. I saw that… _desperation_." She stepped closer into his space, slowly and carefully, giving him every opportunity to escape. "I felt that way too when you were shot by Lewis and when I thought you died in that explosion; when I got word that you had died after the gunfight at the carousel. I felt completely lost when I believed you were dead." He could tell that she was trying to keep herself from crying; she was trying to be strong. "When you came back into my life, I promised myself I wouldn't let you go again."

His eyes had gone wide with the shock; the pain that had been spreading through his chest dissipated and he reached forward, running his hands up and down her arms. He was searching her face for a sign that she was anything but _absolutely sure_ but all he could see was her determination and stubbornness.

He surged forward, kissing her with everything he had and she kissed him back.

 _His girl._

 _Karen fucking Page, nose for trouble in love with the big, bad Punisher._


	35. You've Become a Part of Me

_Author's Note: Okay, okay, so I lied. This is not the end. Don't fret! I'm really proud of this chapter because it has a lot of heart. Please enjoy!_

* * *

 _I feel a million miles away,_

 _Still you connect me in your way_

 _And you create in me_

 _Something I would have never seen._

 _When I could only see the floor,_

 _You made my window a door._

 _So when they say they don't believe,_

 _I hope that they see you and me._

 _After all the lights go down,_

 _I'm just the words,_

 _You are the sound._

 _A strange type of chemistry,_

 _How you've become a part of me._

 _And when I sit alone at night,_

 _Your thoughts burn through me like a fire._

 _You're the only one who knows_

 _Who I really am._

The following weeks went by in a pace that Frank found to be comfortably familiar. It reminded him of the time they had spent together following their first kiss; the one difference, however, was that Karen had been staying at his apartment. He knew why she was there; of course, he knew why. She knew that Nathaniel Thomas was dead; that the men he had paid to kidnap and torture her were dead; that she would never have to see the inside of that room ever again. But knowing those things didn't make the nightmares stop; knowing them didn't keep her from waking up in tears.

So, she slept next to The Punisher, the man who had killed every single one of them. She slept and he would gently wake her if she began to cry in the night, then he would hold her, whisper reassuringly that she would always be safe with him; even if they both knew that he couldn't absolutely guarantee that. But that wasn't the important thing; what was important was that Frank's words helped her slip back into sleep.

After a few weeks, Ellison called her to check in; she had sent in the final draft of the story about her abduction less than four days after she discharged from the hospital. He ran it but told her to continue working from home for a while; she agreed without a fight. But beyond the words that she had said, "Yeah, I understand," was the look on her face; Frank could tell that she was hesitant. Who wouldn't be? But he knew that she would never choose something else to do; she was a survivor – she had _survived_ this and she would survive more.

He would make sure.

After about one week, she went in to meet with her doctor for a follow up and was given a number of breathing and stretching exercises to begin doing. At first, she did them on her own and Frank gave her the space to do it privately. She went into the bedroom and faced the windows; he could tell that she wanted to _prove_ that she could. Not prove that she didn't need him, but to prove that she was still herself – she was still Karen Page, Intrepid Reporter with an ironclad will, who took no bullshit. But the stretches hurt; Frank watched her a few times as she tried to raise her arms up and jerked at the pain, letting out a sharp breath.

After a few days of just observing this, he stepped into the bedroom and into her space. She was wearing tight, black yoga pants with mesh openings like knife slashes along her legs and a black sports bra. He saw the bruises on her torso as well as the stitches for the first time; she would have scars but she would heal. The weather had warmed up considerably and summer was on the way. She had left her hair down because it hurt to lift her arms to put it up; he knew that not because she had told him, but because he had watched her try, over and over, with no success; only huffs of frustration and grimaces of pain. But here he was, standing in front of a gorgeous, strong woman with long, straight blond hair and eyes like icicles, boring into his own. He placed his hands over her bare ribs, gently, and whispered, "Breathe into me." He ignored the goosebumps that erupted on her skin; he ignored the way her breathing changed when he touched her.

She hesitated at first, worried about hurting herself but he maintained eye contact with her. She held an expression of doubt that she shook off; then determination and stubbornness overtook her features and she nodded one time. Then, he felt her ribs pressing into his hands. He knew it hurt; he knew she was gritting her teeth against the pain. She reached her own hands up to grip his forearms – not to push him away, but to add to her own resolve and, with each breath, she pressed herself into him over and over. His slight pressure eased the pain just enough that she could complete the exercises.

After they had done that set, he stepped behind her and to her right; he took her wrist in his right hand and pressed his left to her shoulder blade. He was standing very close to her and he whispered, "Lift your arm."

She turned her head to look at him and then complied, slowly raising her right arm away from her body. She reached almost all the way to a right angle but then her face scrunched up and he saw the muscles in her jaw flex. He slowly slid his left hand over her shoulder, under her arm, and onto her ribs, pressing the palm against the fracture as he had done before; then, he flexed his fingers on her wrist to let her know his intention.

He pressed upward, gently, to help her move, and then she took over; her arm rose higher, finally resting at a right angle to her body. She smiled with so much pride and he felt the same.

He whispered, "I knew you could."

Over the next few weeks, Karen's mobility completely returned and she had begun using small weights to improve the muscle strength over her ribs. Frank stayed close to her to help if she started to feel pain, or push herself too hard. But he wasn't needed for that and he knew it. She was healing perfectly. However, if he attempted to step away, or remove his hands from their places on her body, she stopped the movements and waited, expectantly, for him to return.

When he placed his hand over her ribs, he felt the beat of her heart and the expansion of her breathing and she felt _so alive_. He knew that she was here with him; he knew that she hadn't died – not even close. But it had come _very_ close to being _too close_. He had nearly lost everything again.

He had nearly lost _everything_ that mattered.

He had to admit that she hadn't been the only one who had been having nightmares about what had happened. He would shoot upright in his bed and reach for his gun, still hearing her screams as they drug her away. But she was right next to him, always.

So he would stand with his hands on her and focus in on the signs of _life_ that she exhibited: the way she breathed harshly from the pain; the way that her heart pounded beneath her ribs; the intense blue of her eyes as she watched him; and the sound of her voice when she said "I can't."

He held her arm up at the point where she had stopped, and he would tell her, "You _can_ , Karen – you're so fucking strong. You _can_."

And she could – and she did.

When he witnessed how his assurances had driven her, he realized how foolish he had been all along. He realized how much he mattered to her, even if she only told him that she loved him in near-sleep hazes – even if she only _ever_ told him that way, he could see how important he was to her. Really, it had been clear all along; all those months ago when they had met in the hospital and she had stayed when he'd asked; the months of research and investigation that she did _for him_ ; when she let him into her home after he had _shut the door on her_ ; and the way she clung to him and wept when he returned to her. She had been showing him all along.

So, he made the decision that he would say all the words that he had tried not to say before – before she was nearly taken from him. He would hold nothing back – not anymore, because he knew that she had held nothing back for far longer. "I love you," he whispered against her shoulder as he stood behind her, helping to steady her shaking arm.

She turned her head toward him, slightly, and he saw the sheer determination there. He saw that she wanted to show him how strong she could be. She didn't know that he already recognized that in her – he already knew that she was _a woman to match him_. She powered through the rest of the stretches; she would wince at the pain, but she never stopped believing that she could finish, because he believed that she could.

Over that same time, though, something else was happening, too; something he was trying to push down, ignore, even _fight_. Frank was becoming aroused by these simple touches. Merely placing his hands on her and hearing the way her breathing changed, he couldn't help but be affected. He didn't ask Karen if she felt it too. His knife wound was practically a mere memory at this point, but her body remained bruised; the flesh that had been stitched was scabbing over but it still looked sore. She was keeping the muscles over her ribs strong but she was still wincing for the fractures.

He knew all of this but it didn't stop his damn body from flipping to autopilot the moment he saw her in those tight pants. As he watched the muscles move beneath her skin, his eyes would move over her – from his position behind her, he had quite a view and the spot where his hand sat, over her ribs, was so, _so_ close to her breasts, he felt breathless at times. The insides of his cheeks were getting raw from the way he clamped down on them to stop the moans, stop the comments, stop the blood-flow to his groin.

Sometimes, it even worked, but other times he had to rush away to the bathroom. He was sure that Karen knew exactly what was going on; sometimes, he thought she egged it on a little bit. He would move to stand behind her and he'd notice that she was arching her back a bit more than necessary, pressing her ass back against him, but for only a moment.

When they finished her stretching, Karen would shower _with the damn door open_ and come into the bedroom _in nothing but a towel_. He would rub his hands over his face, roughly, and rush into the bathroom again.

He didn't often masturbate, even when she was trying to kill him with the teasing; mostly, he just showered himself and tried to think of mundane things, like washing his hair, or brushing his teeth. Sometimes, he would smell her body wash and recognize that she had been on this spot, naked, mere moments before him, and all of his wonderful sensibilities disappeared. He tried to keep from making a sound and used both hands to speed it up but he never felt satisfied afterward. Not just because of the need to hurry, but also because it _wasn't enough_.

It had been enough all those months ago when they were finding their footing, but, now, they had made love. He had undressed her; he had seen her entire body; he had tasted her; he had felt her, inside and out, and _goddamn it_ , he was hard again.

He was furious with himself at times; he knew that she was in pain all the time. Once, she had sneezed and began to cry; she would get up to walk and accidentally bump her side, or hit another bruised area, and she would halt all movement, trying to keep from screaming.

Seeing this and recognizing her agony, he couldn't help the way his mind wandered to the pleasure he had wrought from her. He wanted to do something, not for himself, something for her – something that would ease the tension, at least a bit. So, when he left the bathroom and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only a matching, grey bra and panties, he felt his knees buckle.

"Karen," he whispered, warningly.

She laid back and let her legs fall open, enticingly, and he found himself kneeling between them. "Frank," she gasped at the feel of his hands on her inner thighs. He ran his fingers, lightly, along them, feeling the smooth skin and avoiding the bruised areas as best he could.

"Karen," he said again as he slid his right index finger over her panties, the ghost of his touch on her clitoris and beyond. "I don't – I," he whispered.

"Please," was all she said.

That was all it took.


	36. Like Being Free

_Author's Note: Hi all! So this is it. There will be an epilogue chapter up HOPEFULLY soon. I'm sorry for the continuing pauses between updates. I appreciate you all for your patience._

* * *

 _There's a darkness down inside me_

 _That I know we'll both enjoy,_

 _And it's screaming from within_

 _To set it free._

"Karen," he said, his voice gravelly, warning her again; but he was already kneeling at her feet. "Karen," he said again as he lifted his hands and allowed them to settle on her knees, spreading her legs a bit further and scooting forward on the floor.

"Frank," she gasped and accommodated his placement by spreading them further.

His mouth was dry; his mind was blank; his throat had something lodged in it; he couldn't seem to get oxygen into his lungs; and he couldn't tear his eyes away from her body, laid out before him. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, running his tongue along it, as he ran his hands up her thighs. He was moving ever so slowly and watching her like a hawk for any sign of discomfort. His hands moved over her hips and along the lines of her belly; briefly over her ribs and breasts, then pressing more against her collar bone and up to her shoulders. He had sat up on his knees to reach and he could see her face more clearly. He observed the yellowing of her bruises and the healing stitches on her belly; he made note to hold back on the side of himself that wanted to make her scream and pull his hair.

He realized that her breathing had picked up in its pace; it was coming in and out frantically. He couldn't stop; he knew that he should, he knew any wrong move could hurt her, but he couldn't stop his hands. They traced the same lines back toward his chest, and then landed on the waistband of her panties; he was hesitating, waiting to see if she came to her fucking senses and stopped him.

But all she did was reach her hands up and press them over his; she used his hands to push the cotton over her hips and down her thighs.

Frank's mind went blank; he simply let her hands manipulate his movements and watched as her body was unveiled before him. _He remembered this_ and he didn't hesitate again. He leaned in, faster than he intended, and began to kiss and lick her thighs, his mouth harsh and intent on its goal: making her come.

He watched her hands move away from her hips and onto the bed, gripping the bedspread with finger turning white. He stopped paying attention to her hands after that and focused on the way she tasted; the way her breathing hitched in that sexy way he fucking loved; the way her head was thrust back, arching her neck. He moved to her other thigh, kissing, nipping, and licking the skin.

"Frank –" she began but the words turned into a groan when he ran his tongue over her clit, then down along her folds. He moved back up, moving his tongue in circles around the nub; he would go fast, then as she was breathing faster, he slowed down. He repeated this tactic over and over; her body would begin to wind up and her breathing would quicken again. He could tell that she was getting close, so he would slow down again. Her groans of frustration and pleasure sent shockwaves through his body, and he had to adjust himself to be comfortable.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmy _god_ ," she groaned out, all one word, all one breath, and she reached down to grip Frank's hair, holding him in place when he struck a rhythm she clearly enjoyed. He kept it up, hearing the way she moaned, " _Yes,_ " and " _Please, Frank,_ " and " _Don't stop_." Her fingers were gripping tighter and he _loved_ that he was making her lose her control like that.

She was beginning to arch her back and he reached up with his left hand, quickly, without moving his lips from her clit, and he pressed down on her sternum to keep her from injuring her ribs. He remembered how her body twisted during orgasm the last time and he was building her up nicely. He pulled her left leg over his right shoulder, pressing himself against her and shifting the angle just a bit; he felt her pressing against his hand, trying to arch against him but he kept her down. She was mumbling incoherently but he could make out " _Fuck_ ," " _Oh my god_ ," and " _I'm gonna, I'm gonna_ –" and her hands gripped him tighter, tighter than before and he felt tears in his eyes from the stinging pain in his scalp. She didn't make a sound; he thought she had stopped breathing, actually, but he didn't stop his ministrations until he felt her relax back against the bed.

He pulled away and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, sitting back on his haunches. He began standing up when she slowly, but decisively, slid off of the bed and into his lap, as she had done the first time. She began kissing him, hard and passionate; their teeth knocked together a bit but neither of them cared. Her tongue was sliding against his own, tasting herself on him, and she moaned into his mouth. She ran her hands over his bare chest, down over his abdomen, and to the waistband of his drawstring pants. Frank came back to himself and grabbed her wrists, pulling himself back to separate their lips.

The look on her face was disappointed, but still wily. "Karen," he whispered, making his voice stern and authoritative, "You don't get that yet." The way he said those words made her pupils dilate and desire spread across her features like a blush she didn't want to hide. _She liked that_ , he thought. But instead of playing into the fantasy (one he wouldn't mind playing into later), he gripped her hips and lifted her off of him, setting her back on the bed.

He stood up and leaned over to kiss her but stopped when he noticed that the desire was leeching from her expression; being replaced by anxiety. She swallowed and said, "Did I…do something wrong?"

He chuckled, shaking his head, and leaned back down to press his lips to her forehead. As he did so, he knelt before her again and took her face in his hands. "No, Karen, you did not." He took a shaky breath and said, "The things I want to _do_ to you," and he bit his bottom lip, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. "The things I'm _going_ to do to you," he continued, meeting her eyes again. All of the anxiety had dissipated, in favor of heat; she was biting her own lip as her eyes roamed over his face. "When you're healed, I'm going to fuck you," he said, letting her hear the intense desire in his voice, the yearning. "Hard."

Her breathing had quickened again and he _knew_ he could get her to come again if he wanted to.

And he did.

So he did. She was gripping the pillow, desperately, as he thrust his fingers in and out, while licking her clit in soft but determined patterns. When she finally came for the third time, he struggled to keep her body from twisting and writhing as every muscle seemed to tense all at once. She pulled the pillow over her face and _screamed_ ; her breathing sounded like sobs, desperate and needy. Her body was instinctively pulling away from his tongue and fingers because she had become overstimulated, but at the same time, she pressed against him harder.

"Again," she gasped, gripping his left hand that was pressing against her sternum.

As he continued, he thought about this woman; this incredible and powerful woman. She was smart; she knew that there was a killer between her legs, and she _didn't care_. That scared the shit out of Frank but, at the same time, it felt like he could finally take a breath after being held under the tide for so long.

It felt like being free. It was excruciating and wonderful, but he knew that he could never stop doing it or he may very well die.

He would keep moving and prowling, fighting and killing, but he wouldn't be _alive_ anymore. Not without _her_. She did this for him and he felt grateful but the fear was still there. The impulse to kill anyone who may ever be a threat to her was powerful and he thought, maybe, it wouldn't ever die down.

But maybe it wasn't meant to, not really. Maybe Karen loved _it_ too, like she loved the rest of him.

He thought, maybe that was okay.


	37. Epilogue - Here To Mars

_Hi everyone! I am so sorry for the time it took for her to get this out there. With season 1 finished so long ago and very little Punisher inspiration, I totally lost motivation. It sucked a lot._

 _Thank you for reading and thank you for supporting this story!_

 _Song: Here to Mars by Coheed and Cambria_

* * *

 _Honey, it's in the stars_

 _And you're my everything_

 _From here to Mars._

 _Every word I say, I truly mean._

 _Dear darling,_

 _I hope I'm being clear,_

 _'Cause there's no one like you on Earth_

 _That can be my universe._

Two Months Later

Karen was finishing her strength-training regimen for the last time; she told Frank she intended to continue it, though her doctor had only encouraged her to complete six to eight weeks of it. Frank stood right behind her, as usual, with his hands lightly touching her waist and her arm. She'd had a follow up x-ray the day before and her doctor told her that she was "good to go."

Frank had offered for her to stay with him as long as she would like to and, it seemed, she didn't have much of a desire to return to her own place for the time being. For his part, Frank loved having her with him, to dote on her, protect her, and keep her from pushing herself too hard.

He'd given her a stern look when she told him that she intended to return to work after two weeks of medical leave, but he had said nothing. While she was out, he had gone to her place and picked up clothes for her, as well as some other items she had asked him to grab. He met her at the office and they walked home together each night.

 _Home_.

Through her recovery, Frank had waited; he'd been patient, far more patient than Karen was. She would practically jump him whenever he undressed in her vicinity and he would, gently, fend her off, reminding her of the possibility of re-breaking the bones.

"Then it would be _even longer_ ," he had said.

She had made a face but said nothing. He made sure to hold her against the wall of the shower and use his hands and mouth to make her come _over and over_ in hopes of relieving the tension. But every time she tried to reciprocate, he shook his head.

"Remember," was all he would say.

So he waited and was patient, loving, attentive throughout her recovery. He asked about what her doctor said after each visit and continued helping with her stretches. He held her and kissed her, kept her close and tried to protect her from the nightmares.

But Frank couldn't wait anymore.

She had returned from her doctor's appointment the day before and reported that her doctor gave her the all clear. That night, he let her touch him more; she sat on his lap on the couch, grinding against him as they kissed, passionately. But he had eased her off of him and laid her down, pushing her dress up her thighs. By the time he pressed his fingers against her clitoris, she was panting and shaking, whispering "Please," and "Oh God," and "Frank."

But he had pulled away after she came for the third time and said, "Be home right away tomorrow night."

She barely registered that he had spoken, apart from a small nod, as she lay – limp and pliant – on the couch.

When she returned home the following evening, right on time, Frank had chicken baking in the oven, vegetables steaming, and salad ready for them. She smiled at him as she walked in and he grinned back as he set their plates on the counter.

"Hey," he said, "dinner's almost ready."

"Smells good," she said, approaching him and kissing his cheek. "I'll be right back," she added as she walked through the bedroom to the bathroom. He watched her the whole way.

When she returned, he had served their food and said, "Beer?"

"Yes, please," she said, sitting down.

He brought the plates to the table and then returned to the kitchen to grab their drinks. He used the counter top to remove the caps before he took his own seat. As they ate, she talked about her day at work and about the story she was working on – something much safer.

It hadn't been Frank's suggestion, or even his request – he could protect her, he knew that now. He knew what _might_ have happened, but he knew that it didn't – he had saved her. Recognizing that had been exceptionally difficult for him. Seeing her bruises heal and her wounds close had slowly eased his guilt.

But it was Karen that hadn't been ready to take on something like that again. Not yet. She was still Karen Page, intrepid reporter; she still had a nose for trouble; and she would jump back into the line of fire, of that Frank was sure.

And he would be there.

At that moment, however, Karen was happy to take it slow. That didn't mean that she wouldn't hold her gun a little tighter in the future.

When they finished, Karen picked up their plates and began washing them while Frank put the leftovers in Tupperware. He finished his beer and brought Karen's to the kitchen, setting it on the counter so she could drink it when she wanted to. She washed the plates and the pans, setting them in the rack to dry.

Frank was suddenly right behind her, pressing his body against hers and rubbing her arms. She released a quiet moan and tilted her head to the side; Frank took the opportunity to reach up and move her hair away before he began kissing her pale skin. Her hand came up and gripped his hair, holding him in place; he sank his teeth into her neck and she let out a moan that he _promised_ he would hear over and over again.

His hands moved from her arms to her back, gripping around her waist, then moving down to hold her hips. She was trying to press back against him, but he held her still.

"Frank," she whispered; her voice was tinged with frustration but he held fast. "Frank, I'm ready, please."

At that, Frank spun her around and kissed her, running both hands down to her thighs. For once, he hated that she was wearing such a tight skirt because he couldn't lift her up like he wanted to. But she sensed his annoyance and unzipped the garment and pushed it down.

He cursed under his breath and bit his lip, hard, looking down at her body. She was wearing black stockings with lace edging, attached to a garter. He growled and ripped her shirt open, sending buttons everywhere, and exposing a matching bra. She made to object but he kissed her, hard, and lifted her up to walk them to the bedroom. He set her on the bed and crawled on it after her, watching her as if he were about to attack.

In a way, he was.

He yanked his own shirt off and she pulled the ripped blouse off, then reached around herself to unhook her bra and tossed it away. When she reached for the garter, he grabbed both of her arms and forced them above her head. His chest was heaving as he kissed her, hard and desperate.

"Leave it," he growled against her cheek as he kissed down to her neck.

This was different than the other times they had made love. Frank was aggressive, as if when she told him she was ready, she had unwittingly unleashed a beast. He remained gentle in his ministrations, though no longer being so careful, as if he might break her. Karen loved the change of pace, if her breathy moans and the way her hands gripped his neck as they kissed were any indication.

Frank pulled away and began unbuttoning his jeans as she watched, transfixed. He knew that he couldn't remove her panties without removing the garter but he was fine with that. Once he was divested of all of his clothes as well, he put his knee back on the bed and began crawling over to her.

"Frank," she breathed, eying him with intense desire. "Don't make me wait anymore."

He smirked and leaned down to kiss her lips, then over her chin, jaw, and then down her neck. She dug her nails into his shoulders as his kisses moved further down her body. By the time he was licking her over her lacy panties, she was desperate.

"Frank, please," she gasped and then moaned when he pulled the fabric aside to have better access to her clit.

She came within minutes and he crawled along her body once more to kiss her. She wrapped her legs around him, making her desire perfectly clear, and Frank grinned at her. "You need something, ma'am?" He teased.

"God, yes," she answered and groaned against his lips. He used one hand to push the fabric aside again as he lined himself up and thrust inside. "Oh, fuck yes," she breathed.

He chuckled and leaned back to disentangle her legs and put them over his arms – he knees resting in the crook of his elbows. He kissed over the sheer material of her stockings, biting into her thighs and growling when she tensed around him. Then he bent back toward her and kissed her.

The feeling was so incredible, being with Karen in this way. Knowing that he was making her feel so much pleasure. The sounds that exploded from her lips when he began to move could have made him come right then.

"Shit, Karen," he whispered, biting her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Her body clenched him again and he growled.

The rhythm he set was harder than before; faster, too, and Karen was leaving red scratches along his back. He planted one hand by her head and with the other, he reached around her thigh to locate her clit. She gasped and threw her head back as he rubbed in circles. He wouldn't last as long as he wanted to; he'd been just as horny as she had been over the past eight weeks.

"Frank," she said, "don't hold back."

He groaned, remembering the words he'd whispered to her all those weeks ago. So, he picked up his pace, slamming his hips against her hard, harder than he knew he could. His lips found the juncture between her neck and shoulder, and he nipped the pale flesh. Her moans became louder and she dug her nails into his arms. His thumb was still rubbing her and he began to see the signs that she was getting close.

"Oh, Frank," she gasped. "Don't stop."

He would never – _could_ never stop. Not this, not the feeling of her wet heat around him, or the way her thighs trembled, or the way her blue eyes blazed at him. "Never," he whispered and he was sure her nails broke the skin on his arms when she came.

Her entire body clenched; she arched her back and sobbed. "Frank!"

"Karen," he groaned, fucking her through her orgasm, reveling in how her body seemed to want to keep him inside her forever.

He wasn't far behind her, especially when she kissed him and licked into his mouth, pulled his hair a little bit, and scraped her teeth along his lips. His rhythm stuttered but he kept up the pace, feeling how his body tensed up, and then he growled, thrusting deep inside her one last time.

"I love you," he gasped, resting his forehead against hers.

When he opened his eyes, she was smiling up at him. "I love you too," she said.


End file.
